To Win The Girl
by flaminglake
Summary: It's Pauline's birthday, and one young, sandy haired ranger sees this as the perfect opportunity to win her heart. But his Hibernian friend isn't too happy about this and a competition to give Pauline the best birthday present is soon initiated- a competition that escalates amid their next mission: to find out if Gorlan fief is loyal to the throne.
1. A Birthday

**To Win The Girl**

**Well, I was just writing whatever I felt like and this is how it turned out. Well, it's a mini fic, maybe 7 chapters long. Let's see what you all think. **

**Also it's my birthday soon, so this is a kind of birthday themed fic, like I did a Christmas themed one last year...16th oh my god, I want to go back to primary school, the real world is too scary lol! Just think, in a few years I'll have to leave school, get a job, really knuckle down and try to become an author, think about uni...it stresses me out. **

**Disclaimer: Whoop, nearly forgot this. I think you all know anyway: I don't own Ranger's Apprentice, it belongs to John Flanagan, and I have no intent in stealing or making any profit from it, as I am but a simple fan. **

**Chapter 1**

**A Birthday**

"Oh come on, you have to invite boys!" Sandra insisted. "What about the baker boy, he's good looking!"

Pauline smiled and shook her head. "I'm inviting close friends." She suppressed a laugh at the the almost cartoon way her friend Sandra pouted. The courier rolled her eyes. "I never said there wouldn't be any boys though," she pointed out, "I happen to have a few close friends who just happen to be male."

"Oh? Like who?" Sandra planted her rear end onto the table, swinging her legs and pursing her lips as she tried to think of what guys Pauline knew. As a young noble, sitting on the table went against the polite manners her father had drilled into her, but Sandra always let those manners disappear when there were only friends around.

They were in the courier service headquarters, where Pauline was working overtime to finish a letter she was writing on behalf of the baron. Sandra had barged in, demanding birthday plans.

"Oh I know!" Sandra giggled. "It's the ranger!"

Pauline blanched, distracted from her work and suppresing a rush of blood in her cheeks. "What makes you say that?" she asked in a level voice.

Sandra grinned at her. "I've seen you talking to him, and the other day he said 'hello' when he passed us. So spill it, 'Line."

"Spill what?" Pauline had regained her composure and nudged her friend to move over on the table so there was room to write.

Sandra cupped her chin in her hands, a delighted smirk on her lips. "You and the ranger are more than friends. More than close friends even."

"Don't jump to conclusions," Pauline told her evenly. "Halt is just a friend. He has escorted me on several missions. And another ranger, Crowley, has as well so I'm inviting him."

Sandra wasn't convinced, but she let the matter drop. "Alright, so what do you want this party to be like? Shall we get a muscian? Will it be a dance? I like dances, I think it should be a dance."

Pauline smiled. "I just want it to be a quiet occasion with my friends."

"If you want it to be quiet, why are you inviting Crowley?" The voice came from behind them and the girls jumped, turning to see two cowled figures leaning against the doorframe after somehow managing to ease the door open without it creaking.

"Excuse me, I'll have you know I'm the perfect party material," the second ranger protested. "There's never been a more fun party than when I'm around! I have the best taste in music, and no one can dance a finer jig than I!"

"I believe she already said she didn't want music or dancing."

"Well that's lucky for you since you know nothing about either."

Pauline, annoyed at herself for letting her emotions show twice now- first the blush and now jumping when the rangers appeared- turned back to her letter. She was determined to finish it and all the distractions really weren't helping.

"On second thought, I'm not inviting either of you if you're going to keep quarrelling." She was a master of not letting a smile cross her face and she didn't let a single hint of humour show in her voice.

Crowley joined Sandra on the desk and Pauline supressed a hiss of annoyance that her work was disrupted again.

"Ah, Pauline. You have to invite me, you don't get a choice," he told her, adopting wise airs.

Pauline was not in the mood to humour him. It had already been an hour since she started the letter, and she would be so close to finishing if only they would all shut up and let her concentrate. Maybe if she ignored them, they would get bored and leave her in peace.

"Why's that?" Sandra asked. As a noble, she wasn't afraid of rangers. She was, however, unnerved by them and she hopped off the desk, uncomfortable of the close proximity between herself and the ranger with the sandy red hair.

Crowley didn't notice the movement, his eyes were trained on Pauline. "You see, my poor ignorant 'Line, if you don't invite me, your party will be unbearably dull. I bring the joy and charisma to any-" He broke off when Halt knocked him on the head.

"Do you ever shut up?" Halt asked, stressing the last two words. Crowley winced, rubbing his head and feigning hurt.

"Pauline, he's much too violent, you shouldn't invite him. He'll only disrupt your party and-"

Halt hit him again.

So this time Crowley thumped him back.

They glared at each other, and Sandra- who had backed away from those vicious stares- could almost see them spitting like alley cats, hackles raised. Rangers were formiddable on a normal day, but angry rangers? That was something else entirely.

_Thwack!_

Pauline whacked them both with a rolled up piece of parchment from her desk. Sandra stared at her, amazed at the couriers bravery, and the two young rangers winced.

"I'm trying to work," she said, her voice low, calm, flowing and underlined with danger. The rangers and Sandra gaped at her.

"She hits harder than you, Halt," Crowley muttered and the other ranger turned to him with a gleam in his eye.

"Let's find out if that's true," he said, taking a deliberate step forward. Crowley couldn't stop himself from stepping back, a vaguelly concerned look crossing his face as he tried to figure out if his friend was joking.

This not so subtle threat was the final straw for a tired, overworking Pauline.

"All of you, OUT! Or I won't even have a party!" She strode to the door, held it open and glared at them until Sandra and the two rangers slunk out of the room.

…...

"That was your fault," Crowley huffed. Halt rolled his eyes.

"It was not."

"Was so. If I ever become the commandent of the ranger corps, I'll punish you for that."

"Like you could ever be commandant. No one would listen to you."

Crowley sighed. Not because of the harsh assessment of his chances of being corps commandant, rather he was thinking about Pauline. The way her hair glowed in the sun, the sparkle in her eye, her graceful composure. And that he often caught her odd, almost shy sideways glance at Halt.

She had affections for the grim ranger, any fool could see that. Crowley was left wondering if there was hope for him to take his relationship with her beyond friendship. He wanted to, oh how he wanted to, but he had a sinking feeling in his gut that she would never belong to him. It wrenched his heart, it made him sick, it sentenced him to sleepless nights and desperate binge drinking.

What was worse was that Halt was so damn naeve. He never noticed the way she looked at him and he wouldn't dare make a move towards her. She might wear a nice dress and he would blush and turn away, leaving Crowley suppressing a wince as he saw Pauline's own blush. They were so right for each other, and yet so wrong that it hurt the sandy haired ranger. He could only imagine the heartbreak if they ever realised their shared affections. Crowley didn't want to be a third wheel.

That was why he wasn't going to lose. Not this time. He was certain with his own charm and flattering smile that had the court ladies swooning over him, he could win one courier over. Still, Pauline was in a league of her own. She was a steady, methodical and a practical young woman and though he tried, Crowley really couldn't imagine her swooning over anyone.

"Crowley?"

The sandy haired ranger realised he'd been standing still, hands clenched at his sides. He shook his head to clear it, trying to calm his pulse that raced with the mere thought of the beautiful courier. Halt had paused and was looking back at him.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Crowley waved it off. "I was just thinking of what I would get Pauline for her birthday."

Halt blinked at him. His face gave him away, although her quickly turned around and started walking again.

"It didn't even cross your mind that you have to buy her something!" Crowley accused him. "What, did you think you could turn up empty handed?"

Halt flashed him an irritated look. "Of course not, I'll find something."

"Like what?" Crowley challenged.

Silence.

"Well what are you going to get her?" Halt demanded and Crowley waved a hand in an airy manner.

"Oh, I'm not letting you steal my idea," he said.

"You don't have an idea."

"I do so."

"Well, what is it?"

"I'm not saying."

"Because you don't have one."

"Because it's so brilliant, I want to surprise everyone," Crowley said cheerfully. "After all, girls love guys who get them amazing gifts, you know." He shot a subtle glance at his friend, just in time to see Halt's eyebrows draw together.

"What do you mean?" Halt's lips twitched down, a crease in his brow and a hesitation in his voice.

Crowley shrugged, striding along with all the confidence he didn't feel. "I'm going to ask her out," he admitted.

Halt stiffened, repulsion rising in his stomache, a deep sense of black forboding in his heart. "Why?" he asked carefully. Crowley let out a short bark of laughter.

"I like her, you idiot," he said. "Does it bother you?" His eyes were peircing shards of glass, demanding answers from the uncomfortable young man in front of him. Halt's jaw was tensed and strained, the pallor of his face evident even under his hood. Come on, Crowley thought, just admit you like her so I can compete with you.

"It's not any of my concern," Halt murmured. "Do what you want."

He was too stubborn. Crowley chewed the inside of his lip, surprisingly dissatisfied. It didn't seem right to steal the girl his friend- his _brother-_ so evidently liked, but if Halt would only admit to liking her they could compete for her, or support each other, or just do _something_ that might give Crowley a chance. Because if he left things how they were, sooner or later, he would become the tag-along when they got together. They couldn't keep denying their connection forever.

It would be better for Crowley to break the connection, if only he could think of a way. To destroy their friendship and offer his shoulder for Pauline to cry on. There was a bitter part of him that wanted to, but it was a part that he locked away for he could not break the hearts of the people he cared about the most.

"Tell you what," he said. "If you can get Pauline a better present than me, I won't ask her out." He'd let Halt have her.

Halt turned to him, a competitive fire burning. "I don't care if you ask her," he muttered, but the intenseness in his eyes betrayed his words.

"Whatever you say, Halt," Crowley said, grinning. "You'll lose anyway."

Halt growled at him. He flat kicked his friend's knee and Crowley howled his outrage as his leg buckled under him.

"What was that for?" he demanded, sprawled on the ground, face flushed with indignation.

Halt was already running for the stable, determined to get to the shops first to find the perfect present for Pauline.

"That cheater," Crowley hissed.

…...

Halt was in luck. It was market day in Wensley village, and dozens of stalls were set up. Tendrils of smoke rose into the air, from where a succulant pig was roasting on the spit and date bread was baked over an open fire. Oxen and horses snuffled at each other around the square. Peasants traded whatever crops they hadn't given to the baron, nobles mingled among them without the usual restraints to buy whatever luxuries they could find and children skipped over the cracks of the cobblestones.

There was no need for Halt to tether Abelard, so he left the horse by a respectable white mare who seemed nice enough. The ranger horse whuffled a greeting to the mare, but it was a reserved greeting because Abelard never liked it when his master ran off alone.

"I'll be fine," Halt rolled his eyes at his horse's concern. He felt eyes watching him and spotted a young child.

"Daddy," she called. "Can rangers talk to animals?"

Halt was used to the general reaction of people to rangers- the fathers hurried his daughter away, his fingers forming the sign of the cross and the crowd parted at a glimpse of the grey green ranger cloak.

What he wasn't used to was the rush of emotion prompted by what Crowley had said, about asking Pauline out, and worse, when he asked if it bothered Halt. Because it _did _bother Halt, though he wasn't sure why. Crowley was his friend, Pauline was his friend, and he should be happy for the both of them. So why was he revolted at the thought of them together? Why was his heart beating at ten thousand miles an hour?

He hated the idea of Pauline being Crowley's _girlfriend._ Despised it. His chest was being squeezed, he was suffocating and he just didn't understand why.

Halt bit his lip. There must have been a time when Crowley realised he wanted to be more than friends with Pauline. That he...he wanted to kiss her...and hold her. Feel her soft skin, her lips pushing against his, the musky scent of perfume enveloping him and strands of her hair brushing his face. Except Halt wasn't thinking of Crowley anymore, in his mind it was _himself_ so close to Pauline.

"Can I help you sir Ranger?" He was startled out of his thoughts by a tentative shop keeper. In a foul mood as he was, Halt couldn't help glaring at the man from underneath his hood for interrupting his train of thought.

"Yes," he said shortly. He scanned the stall, took in the array of jewellery on display and the fine silk scarves. Halt didn't know the slightest thing about jewells or fashionable scarves; he could feel a mounting sense of hopelessness in his inability to buy Pauline a good present.

"We have the very best prices," the shopkeeper's voice was just above a whisper and he licked his lips, nervous at being around the ranger.

Halt shook his head, frustrated. Nothing leapt out at him and besides, despite what the shopkeeper said, it was expensive and he didn't have a lot of money.

He hoped he was right that Crowley was bluffing when he said he knew what he was getting her.

…...

When Crowley picked himself up from the dirt and glowered at Halt's retreating back, he knew he didn't have a hope of reaching the market first. And he knew that if there was something really good there, Halt would buy it, so he couldn't take the risk of buying it himself in case Halt had already bought it and then they would end up getting her the same present which completely ruined it. So he had to find something amazing that Halt would never think of, but also that Pauline really wanted and didn't know she wanted because if she knew she wanted it, Halt could probably figure out that she wanted it and buy it for her...

Crowley was starting to confuse himself. He shook his head to clear it.

Of course, he had something Halt didn't have. Natural charm. Yes, Halt's grim humour was appealing, but he was shy around people he didn't know well and that was where Crowley's advantage lay. The sandy haired ranger was open and friendly and had no trouble talking to anyone- or asking them what their friends wanted for their birthday.

With his solution in mind, he found himself whistling a jaunty tune as he jogged back to the castle and up the stairs. His sharp eyes made out the vivid red hair of Pauline's friend and he hurried over and slung a confident arm around her shoulders.

He was not prepared for the ear splitting shriek she let out, or her flinch, or her arm swinging around to hit him. Crowley ducked, somewhat bemused.

"I'm not evil, or anything," he said. "There's no need for that reaction."

She let out a breath and smiled, though her shoulders remained stiff. "Of course not ranger, I didn't think you were. I just didn't hear you coming."

Crowley grinned sheepishly and scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, sorry about that. Didn't mean to scare you. Hey, you're Pauline's friend, right?"

"Yes, and you're her friend too. Ranger Crowley, right?"

"Aha. And your name?"

"Sandra."

"Well, it's an honour to be acquanted with you Lady Sandra." If he'd had a hat on, he would have swept it off in a flued movement as he kissed her hand. As it was, he gave his deepest, most flambuoyant bow. A quite gallant and courteous action, or at least Crowley thought so.

"Listen, Sandra, about Pauline's birthday," he began. She cocked her head, and he took it as an invite to keep going. "I want to get her a very special present. I was hoping you might have some ideas?"

Sandra giggled, her eyes lighting up in such a way that he was vaguelly unnerved. She seemed to be studying him, visibly sizing him up from head to toe, that odd little giggling burbling from her throat. As a ranger, Crowley was brave enough to stand his ground, though he really was quite disturbed by the gleam in her eye.

"Oh, a _special_ present, huh?" Sandra clicked her tongue. "I would recommend a diamond ring. Or chocolates. Or roses are nice. Or chocolate _and _roses."

Crowley thought about it for a minute. "Well, okay, but those things are all very common. I want to show that I really put a lot of thought into it. Is there anything she deeply wants?"

Sandra shrugged. "Sorry Ranger Crowley, I can't help you. There's nothing, as far as I know."

Crowley sighed. "That's alright. Thanks for your help, Lady Sandra."

Sandra nodded and curtseyed breifly, still a little awed that she was talking to a ranger, even if she didn't believe them to be sorcerors.

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, leaning against a banister. Maybe he shouldn't have gone to find Sandra; it gave Halt a head start at the market and gotten him nowhere. He'd been overthinking things earlier, he decided; Halt wasn't such a skilled shopper to find the perfect present for Pauline. It was best to head over to the market right away and buy the best thing he could find.

"Ranger!"

Crowley glanced up at the interruption. A page was hurrying towards him, and he stopped before the ranger, out of breath.

"Ranger, the Baron wants to see you."

…...

Abelard and Cropper whinied to each other now and again as the cantered out of Redmont. Their hooves disturbed the fragile beads of dew on the grass, and a faint breeze stirred their manes.

"So why are we going to Gorlan exactly?" Halt asked. As soon as Crowley had found him, the two had set out for Gorlan fief and he was bristling with impatience for he hadn't gotten a detailed explanation yet.

Crowley shrugged. "There has been some rumours about Baron Ceder of Gorlan. Apparently, he isn't too loyal to the throne. Prince Duncan sent a message to Redmont's baron about this, and he agrees with the prince that someone should investigate."

"Someone being us," Halt guessed and Crowley grinned.

"Well, you actually. But the page saw my cloak and got us confused. And I figured since I'm in Redmont anyway, I'd help you out." Crowley had been escorting a young noble to Redmont fief, had heard about Pauline's birthday, and decided to stay for a few days for the celebration.

"I'll always be in your debt," Halt said sardonically. "So what are we supposed to do in Gorlan?"

Crowley waved a careless hand. "Oh, we're just to keep an ear to the ground. It's been arranged that we'll be meeting with the baron and his son." The ranger of Gorlan had been injured and they used that as an excuse- they were checking up on the fief and helping with some of the injured ranger's workload.

"Alright." Halt stretched his muscles, drumming his fingers on his longbow. He'd never been fond of Gorlan; it had always seemed a dour place. "What's Baron Ceder's son's name?"

"Morgarath," Crowley answered. "What a name to call your son! Doesn't it just send shivers down your spine, as if something bad is about to happen?"

Halt had to admit to himself that it did. But he was also busy worrying about Pauline's present and didn't give it too much thought.

**Gingerbread ranger-shaped cookies baked by Jenny Dalby herself if you know who Sandra is in the books. **

**By the way, I know my RA history is way out of whack, there's no need to comment on that. Well, you can if you want. I have read the 11th book, I'm just ignoring it lol. **

**Don't worry Crowley, Pauline might love Halt, but I'm still swooning over you. Oh why couldn't John Flanagan write you as a young man...why couldn't you have been a main character?**

**Is it true that there's going to be a book about Halt and Crowley when they were young?**


	2. A Race

**Chapter 2**

**A Race**

Halt always found it relaxing to ride. Abelard's hooves clomped repetitively on the soil. A crisp wind stirred the hair on his neck and the golden fields of wheat danced. There was not a trace of cloud in the sky to block the sun from warming his back. All in all, it was a pleasant ride through the country.

Even so, there was a knot in his stomache. It was not so much nerves as it was anticipation. Halt didn't exactly have a sixth sense, but he could feel when something was amiss, and after looking through the various reports about Gorlan, he was quite prepared to believe Baron Ceder was a traitor.

And if that were the case, there was a chance the mission was not going to be as straightforward as Crowley seemed to think. Halt glanced at the sandy haired ranger who was humming a jaunty tune to himself, tapping his toes and slapping his hands against Croppers neck to the beat. It really did ruin the peaceful air.

"Do you have to do that?" Halt pleaded. Crowley blinked in surprise.

"Do what?" The question was sincere. He'd been humming unconsciously- it was a habit of his. Sometimes, Halt wondered how Crowley was such a great unseen mover when he broke out in song at every little opportunity. Sooner or later, an enemy would realise that someone was singing _the farmer and the dell _in the bushes.

"You were wailing," Halt explained.

Bewildered, Crowley asked, "was I?"

Halt nodded patiently. "Yes, you were. I was starting to worry about your health. No man should make a noise like that." Especially because the tune had been so high pitched.

Crowley frowned, thinking back. He couldn't remember wailing. He was vaguely concerned that maybe he was losing his mind, when _the cross eyed sorceror _popped into his head and he realised he'd been humming along to it.

"By wailing, did you mean my singing?" He summoned all of his indignation into his voice.

"Singing? Is that what you call it? If you say so."

Crowley decided to ignore the sarcastic comment and instead stated that, "there's nothing wrong with a good cheery song, so no, I won't stop." In fact, he started singing the lyrics at the top of his lungs.

Halt groaned. Abelard angled his head towards Cropper. _What is wrong with your master? _Cropper shook his head from side to side. _Don't you complain, I'm the one he's sitting on. _

"I thought you told Pauline that you were great with music and dance, or something like that." Halt had his usual deadpan expression.

"I am!" Crowley adopted an air of offended dignity. Then, just to annoy his friend, he added, "Pauline thinks so too."

"She does not," Halt dismissed the claim.

"Oh yes she does! She told me so." Well, it was a small lie, but Crowley liked provoking a reaction. It was so obvious that Halt stiffened in the saddle. Crowley wished the other ranger would just admit to liking her, perhaps even loving her. He didn't even know why he was so desperate to get Halt to see it, he just knew that it irritated him to know end when Halt acted like he and Pauline were no more than friends. "Maybe I'll sing her a serenade when I ask her out."

Halt's teeth ground together. He couldn't even appreciate the humourous idea of Crowley trying to serenade a girl; he was too frustrated. Everytime Crowley mentioned asking Pauline out, something heavy closed around Halt's heart and he wasn't sure why. After all, he himself didn't want a relationship like that. Not with Pauline, even though she was by far the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, and just being near her made his heart thump, and...

Oh god, he did want to be with her _like that._

"You won't ask her out if I get her the better present." Halt fought to keep his voice steady.

"True, I did say that," Crowley agreed. "I also won't ask her out if you reach Castle Gorlan before me."

Halt glanced at him sharply. "What do you mean?" He could have kicked himself for his eager reaction.

Crowley smirked. "I'll race you for her. First one to reach Castle Gorlan gets Pauline- and no cheating, you have to wait until I say go."

"It's not fair if you say go when you're racing," Halt pointed out.

Despite the seriousness of his feelings for Pauline, Crowley was starting to have fun competing with his best friend. He liked being able to draw out reactions from the normally stoic ranger.

"Fine. We'll start when we pass that jutting rock on the hill over there," Crowley decided. Halt didn't bother agreeing, his lack of protest told his friend that he was fine with that arrangement.

They drew level to the rock. Halt's eyes flicked sideways and saw Crowley's heels move, about to clap into Cropper's sides. He matched his own movements and the two horses shot away.

They were neck and neck. Abelard might have been slightly ahead, but not far enough to tell. Halt had to fight back the temptation to urge his horse on to greater speeds. He knew he couldn't overextend Abelard before the reached the Castle.

The horses eyeballed each other; the rangers eyeballed each other. They were still on a mission so they kept track of their surroundings- the wheat fields gave was to pastures of green where cows grazed, and the hills curved up to the sky. A falcon flew in circles; a lone farmer watered a vegetable garden.

Castle Gorlan came into sight on the horizon. The rangers were trusting their horses to find the right paths now, they were too busy watching each other to see when the other was going to speed up. Crowley gave an experimental twitch of the reins and Cropper surged ahead, but Halt allowed Abelard to match the movement.

It wasn't surprising that they were evenly matched. Halt had recently stolen horses from the temujai and that line hadn't yet been bred into what was going to be the new ranger horses- Bob and the other trainers were very excited about it. So Abelard and Cropper both came from the old line, which originated from Gallica, and the Gallican horse that had fathered Abelard also fathered Cropper.

They kept urging the horses to greater speeds, thundering along the turf. They farms became more numbered as they neared Gorlan, and then they were passing a small settlement. The town came next- a morbid little town painted in dull greys and there were barely any people on the streets even on such a sunny day.

Halt knew he wasn't going to win the race now. Even if he urge Abelard on to even greater speeds, Cropper would match them and anyway, the drawbridge around the castle was coming up.

"Crowley?" Halt called. The sandy haired ranger glanced over at him.

"I know," he said. The guards by the drawbridge had their spears exended, alarmed at the dust gathering behind the two speeding horses. "Shall we call it a draw?"

Halt nodded briefly. He pulled on the reins to slow Abelard down, bringing him down to a canter, then a trot, then a walk and finally a full stop just outside the drawbridge. Beside him, Crowley did the same.

"Good morning!" Crowley greeted the guards with his usual sunny disposition. His cowl had fallen off in the race, and his shining brown eyes and ruffled red hair on such a young, handsome face helped put the befuddled guards at ease. Halt wasn't going to help with that, and he pulled his own cowl back up to shadow his eyes.

Once they showed their silver oakleaves, the guards let them through, but they did so with more reserve than most guards would. Almost as if Gorlan has something to hide, Halt thought.

"I suppose we should report to the baron first," Crowley said. His constant grin was fading as he gathered himself, and Halt was reminded that even though his friend joked a lot, Crowley was always sharp and serious on missions. There wasn't anyone Halt would rather have by his side.

…...

Unlike most barons, Ceder wasn't fat. If anything, he was too skinny. His knees were knobbly, his arms jutted out from his side like sticks. The clothes he wore hung loosely on him, as if they had been tailored to fit another shape, so maybe he had once been plump but had lost an awful lot of weight.

His throne was covered in jewels and pluh cusions, the walls behind him were hung with tapestries. With his milky skin and limp white hair, Ceder appeared to be drowning in his luxuries.

Halt and Crowley noticed all this as they were shown into the chamber. They also noticed the guards standing behind the throne. That was a touch baron Arald rarely had- his guards were usually outside the room. It seemed that Ceder wanted to display his power in Gorlan.

"My lord," Crowley bowed deeply. It never did to start off on the wrong foot with a baron. Halt's bow was a little stiffer and not as deep as Crowley's. He'd already made up his mind that he didn't much like Baron Ceder and Halt hated bowing to people he didn't like.

Ceder regarded them contemptously. "Ranger Crowley, Ranger Halt," he said, but the way he layed stress on the word 'ranger' implied that it was an insulting title. Even though it had been five years since Halt and Crowley reformed the corps, there were still many who remembered the times when rangers were nothing more than alchoholic nobles who bribed their way into the corps.

"We're here to help out Ranger Eric, since he's been injured-"

"Yes, yes, so I've heard," Ceder cut off Crowley mid sentence. The sandy haired ranger gritted his teeth to stop himself from losing his temper at the baron's rudeness. Pritchard had always told him he had to keep his temper and his pride in check- that red hair made him feirce, according to the old ranger. Breifly, Crowley wondered if his red hair also made him want to compete with Halt over Pauline.

"I suppose you'll also want to join us at the banquet tonight," Baron Ceder continued. He appeared to be displeased with the idea.

"My lord, I-" Crowley began, but was cut off again.

"I'll save you both seats," Ceder told them. Crowley had to stop himself from protesting. He had been going to refuse the offer since the baron seemed to think the idea to be so distasteful.

"Thank you, my lord," Halt said smoothly. He didn't care if the baron didn't really want them there, it was a good opportunity to find out more about Gorlan.

Ceder didn't grace him with any acknowledgement. He turned away to stare out the window, and one of the guards growled at them that they were dismissed.

….

To keep up pretenses, and to do some information digging, they decided to meet with Ranger Eric next. Gorlan's ranger lived in a cabin a way apart from the town, of course, and Halt and Crowley rode there to meet him.

As they rode through the town, they both scanned the shops for good presents without letting the other one see their curiosity. So Halt wondered if Crowley already had a great present and that was why he didn't seem to be looking at shops, and vice versa.

At one stage, Halt spotted a book shop, each book bound in fine leather. Such books were expensive in Araluen, but he thought he'd take a look in case there was something Pauline migt like.

"Hold up, Crowley," he said. "My saddle is coming loose, you go on ahead." He swung down and pretended to adjust his saddle straps. Crowley smirked as he spotted the book store. They both knew Pauline liked reading when she got the chance, and they both knew Halt always put his saddle on right in the mornings.

"Not at all, I'll wait," Crowley said, trying not to look too superior. Scowling, Halt faked adjusting the saddle then swung back onto his horse. Abelard turned his head to look at him: _what was that about? _

"Nothing," Halt snapped at his horse.

"What?" Crowley asked, unaware that he was interrupting a discussion between owner and horse.

Halt glowered at his friend. He decided to go have a look at the book shop later.

When they reached the cabin, both young rangers were a bit irritated at each other. Halt led the horses around the back, while Crowley knocked on the door.

They knew Eric of course. He was a short, sturdy man, with a mane of brown hair just beginning to go grey and thick eyebrows. Soon after Halt and Crowley reformed the corps, they fired many of the nobles who had bribed their way in. Eric was one of the few nobles that had actually had a couple of years training. One of the rangers helped to hone his skills for another three years until they decided he was good enough to be a true ranger. Unfortunately, Eric had a history of drinking and gambling- he was over that now, but many rangers were still sceptical of his worth so he had become desperate to prove himself.

Now, he greeted them wearily. He made them a cup of coffee and settled down at the table. His leg was badly broken and he had to limp across the room.

"I'm telling you," he said at length. "Baron Ceder isn't a traitor." Eric, of course, knew the real reason they were in Gorlan. "And even if he was, I can deal with it."

"We don't know for sure that he is," Crowley assured him. "We're just following orders." They probably would have come even if they weren't following orders, but there was no advantage in telling Eric that.

Eric gritted his teeth. "I can deal with it myself."

Crowley and Halt exchanged a glance. "You're injured," Crowley said. "There's no shame in having help when you're injured."

"Help from two of you?" Eric growled. "One would have been sufficient. Or is it because of my past. Because I used to...have problems."

"It's not you," Crowley assured him. "Honestly, I was just in Redmont for a friends birthday, so I thought I'd tag along. It's not even my mission."

Halt sipped at his coffee. He was sick of all the reassurences. It was always like that with Eric. Even at the gatherings, they had to flatter him and talk him up to keep him happy.

"Can you tell us if Baron Ceder has acted strangely, or said anything odd lately?" Halt decided to get right down to business.

Eric's eyes turned hostile. "No one in my fief is a traitor, alright? I know what I'm doing and-"

"Eric please," Crowley held up his hands. "We aren't trying to accuse you of anything, or hold you responsible for the actions of your baron. A ranger can't control his fief, even if we want to."

"Don't talk to me like that!" Eric snapped.

Crowley rubbed his eyes wearily. "Like what?"

"Like you're so much better than me. Giving out advice like you're more experienced, when I'm more than ten years older than you."

Crowley dropped his head on the table. "I was only trying to help," he said.

"I already said I don't need your help," Eric hissed. Secretly, Eric was jealous of Crowley. Halt could tell, because Halt knew something that Crowley didn't- after they had reformed the corps, been given the choice of who should run it and picked their mentor Pritchard, Halt overheard the older rangers saying that either Halt or Crowley should have really been the corps commandant as they were the ones who had taken charge of reforming the corps. Pritchard knew about Halt's past, and Halt later confessed to him that he'd overheard the conversation but he didn't want to ever be high ranking again and would turn the position down if it was ever offered to him.

So, Halt was fairly certain that in a few more years time, when Crowley was ready, the sandy haired ranger would be promoted to corps commandant. In fact, many rangers had already guessed this because the senior rangers listened to the advice of Halt and Crowley, and this caused jealousy among some members who were older and their opinions were less valued. So Halt had a pretty good guess that Eric was jealous of Crowley- though he didn't realise his own part in this in that Eric was also jealous of _him. _

"In that case, we'll leave," Halt said shortly, losing patience.

"Halt-" Crowley protested, but was cut off. _Again, _he realised- first baron Ceder, now Halt.

"No, Crowley, we tried working with him, but Eric is too stubborn. If he doesn't need or want our help, we won't give it. We'll work on our own mission, and he can do his." Halt crossed his arms.

"Good," Eric shot back at him. "I'm telling you, Ceder is not a traitor. I wouldn't allow that in my fief. You can go see for yourself."

"Alright then," Halt huffed. "Let's go Crowley." He stormed from the cabin, slamming the door behind him. Crowley hesitated behind him.

"Halt, he might know something, even if he doesn't know he knows it."

"Well, he's not going to tell us if he does," Halt said. "We don't need Eric. We can deal with this on our own."

"I guess so," Crowley muttered. "I was hoping to keep some camaraderie in the corps though."

…...

As rangers, Halt, Crowley and Eric were seated near the craftmasters, Morgarath and Ceder. Eric was next to Crowley and he ate in sour silence. Crowley ignored him, choosing instead to make small talk with the battlemaster. Halt was never one to talk much, and he remained silent, just observing the baron and his son out the corner of his eye.

Morgarath looked a lot like his father. He had the same sallow cheeks and lifeless eyes. And even though he couldn't have been more than forty, his hair was dead white.

Both Morgarath and Ceder picked at their food. Halt was right when he thought they must have lost weight recently- they hardly ate anything. And despite being so similar, they did not speak a word to each other, so Halt guessed they weren't on good terms.

Ceder tapped his fork against his glass for attention. The gathered people weren't noisy anyway, so it didn't take long for what little conversation there was – namely between Crowley and the battlemaster- to die down.

"I believe we have two guests in our company," Ceder droned. "Please welcome Ranger Crowley of Caraway and Ranger Halt of Redmont." His voice didn't invite much welcoming, and there was a muted applause by a few uncertain people.

The main course for the evening came out. Great platters of turkey and fish, pork belly and chicken legs smothered in garlic sauce. There was crispy salad, fruit, bread and puddings. Crowley grinned.

"There's one good thing about this mission, at least," he whispered to Halt. "The food looks marvelous!" He reached over to pile up his plate with as much as he could find. Halt was still watching baron Ceder in his peripheral vision. None of the food appealed to the baron, and Ceder's plate remained empty, his face pale. Morgarath didn't seem to be hungry either. Obviously, they both had troubled minds.

Troubled with plans of betrayal?

"Um," Eric brought the attention to him. Crowley and Halt glanced around- they had all but forgotten about the other ranger.

"Look, I'm sorry about earlier," Eric sighed. "I shouldn't have gotten so angry. We're allies in this, right?"

"Right!" Crowley said happily, pleased that the ranger had come around. "I'm sorry too. For storming out on you."

Eric nodded. Crowley nudged Halt, but the grim faced ranger wasn't about to apologise.

"Halt's sorry too," Crowley said, shooting a frustrated glare at his friend.

"I know." Eric actually reminded Crowley of Halt in a way. He never smiled, and always took things seriously- more seriously than Halt did. Crowley supposed that was just a part of his eagerness to prove himself.

"Try this," Eric said, taking a plate of potato salad in front of him. "It's a Gorlan specialty."

Crowley grinned. "Yes please!" he said. Eric dished out a generous helping. The battlemaster and other craftmasters around them were absorbed in their own conversation. That suited Halt fine, he was more than happy to simply listen and gather information. Not that they were talking about anything interesting. Just the latest girlfriends. Which reminded Halt of Pauline.

Since the conversation in the room had increased, he felt it was safe to murmur to Crowley and Eric beside him.

"Ceder seems to have something on his mind," Halt whispered. He was surprised when he received no answer. Crowley's face had gone white and a trickle of sweat wound from his forehead down to his collar. His fork was paused midway in the air and he set it down slowly on his plate.

"Is he alright?" Eric asked, leaning forward to study the younger ranger. Halt frowned. Crowley's breath was coming in raggid gasps and his eyelids fluttered. His eyes seemed to be hazy and distant, as if he wasn't sure where he was anymore.

Then, suddenly, he toppled from his seat and lay writhing on the floor.


	3. A Traitor

**Chapter 3**

**A Traitor**

"Crowley!" Halt leapt from his chair, sending the item of furniture clattering to the ground. He crouched beside his friend and seized Crowley's flailing hands in his.

"What happened?" Eric had risen from his seat as well and he hovered over them.

"Crowley?" Halt said again. There was no sign of acknowledgement from the sandy haired ranger. It was disturbing to see how much pain Crowley was in- he twisted and groaned and whimpered, his skin sweaty, his eyes screwed shut. Barely a minute ago, he'd been fine!

Halt's first thought was a seizure, but Crowley was much too young for that. So that left his next thought. Poison.

Ceder and Morgarath appeared less than interested in proceedings. Perhaps they were slightly bothered by the interruption, perhaps not. It was difficult to tell. Either one of them could have been the culprit.

"Is he going to die?" Eric asked. His eyes were wide- they could even be described as terrified-and his hands were actually shaking. That was a strong reaction from someone who wasn't fond of Crowley. And Eric was a ranger trained to take control of situations like these. Halt came to the conclusion that he was faking, which of course was followed by the suspicion that Eric had poisoned Crowley.

"I need a healer," Halt said. Eric let out an audible gasp.

"There are no healers! Oh god, Crowley's really going to-"

"Of course there are healers, you fool," Halt snapped. Eric was looking more and more like the culprit. "Gorlan is a big fief. There will be more than one healer and you know who they are."

"There are no healers," Ceder put in coolly. "Please leave my dining hall. You are causing a fuss."

Halt couldn't believe it. They were blatantly lying to his face and they were lies that could cost Crowley his life. There were certainly healers, yes, but Halt didn't know where to find them and it was possible that they had been ordered not to help.

"Hold on Crowley," he muttered and lifted his friend. Well, Halt was known for his persuasive ability- an ability often enhanced by his saxe- and he was confident he could get any healer to help, so long as he could find one.

Crowley moaned and his head rolled onto Halt's shoulder, a trail of drool soaking into his collar. Halt was never pleased to have someone drooling on him, and he resolved to make the poisoner pay for reducing his friend to this agony.

"Leave before I call the guards," Ceder said smoothly. Halt forced back his rage. There must surely be a healer at the feast. A healer that was coolly eating when he had the ability to help Crowley.

"If any of you are a healer, then please-" He addressed the assembled crowd, but was cut off.

"Guards!" Four armoured men -two by the door and two hovering over Ceder- bristled to attention.

"I'm going!" Halt snapped. The guards all stepped towards him, hands on their sheathed swords. "I'm going," he said in a quieter tone, then added belatedly, "sir."

Eric settled back down at the table. The worst part was, it hadn't even been that long since Halt and Crowley reformed the corps, and already they had a traitor in their midst. With the sandy haired ranger in his arms, Halt stormed from the dining hall. He knew he was being 'rude' to the baron and the other craftmasters- Crowley and Pauline had both told him that often enough.

Well, in these circumstances, he doubted Crowley would care too much. After all, Halt was kindly letting his friend drool all over his collar (and it was getting rather damp now), so it was only fair that his lack of protocol and manners were overlooked this one time.

Halt headed for the courtyard. His boots rang on the hexagon path stones, and a chill wind rustled Crowley's hair against his cheek. He could feel his friend's heartbeat beside his own, which was a relief. Halt couldn't really imagine a world without a perminantly smiling, chattering, _annoying_ red head showing up at the weirdest hours to nag him about how he was 'ruining decent coffee by putting honey in it."

The courtyard was deserted and he ran through it to the town. Not everyone would be at the feast; they'd be someone out in the musky evening. His arms were starting to ache and he shifted his hold on his friend.

He saw a window lit up behind closed curtains and a shadowy figure moving across the room. Halt hurried over and thumped on the door with his shoulder. It took an age for the footsteps to clomp across the room and open the door.

It was a man, with brown hair tied back, tanned skin from working outside, and wearing rough overalls. He eyed his visitors with suspicion.

"Who're you?" he growled.

"Oh, don't frighten our guests," a female said from behind him. She joined her husband, her arms linking around his waist, and her swollen stomache gave away her pregnancy. The man held out a protective arm in front of her.

"I need a healer," Halt said quickly. "My friend here-" he broke off as Crowley hugged him closer and mumured, "Ngghh, Pauline." He even went so far as to nuzzle into Halt's ear. "Hurts," he whispered pathetically.

Slightly disturbed, Halt angled his head away. "Like I said, I need a healer."

The man continued to glower at them, but the woman smiled. "There's Jane. She lives down Silver street at house number 44. But she'll be at the feast with the others."

Halt gritted his teeth, frustrated. "I thought that might be the case," he admitted. For a moment he was torn, then he came to a decision. "Listen, can I leave him with you for a while? I have something to do up at the castle."

"Sure," the woman said and nudged her husband. "Doug, take the sick young man."

The man, Doug, reluctantly let Halt pass Crowley onto him. The sandy haired ranger whimpered in protest.

"Pauline!" he muttered, clinging to Halt's neck like a limpet. With Doug's help, Halt managed to prise himself from his delusional friend.

"I'll be back soon." He bowed breifly. "Thank you, Doug and...?"

"Rose."

"Thank you." Halt let out a shaky breath and hurried back towards the castle. He wasn't going to get a healer until the feast was over, but before then, he might as well make the most of the opportunity. With the castles occupents at the feast, it was the perfect chance to prove that Ceder was a traitor. And Halt was going to damn well prove it, if only to get back at the baron for harming his best friend.

He'd come to the conclusion that both Ceder and Eric were in on the poisoning. After all, they had both told him that there were no healers, and while Eric had overacted, Ceder had just not seemed surprised. Then again, maybe Ceder simply didn't care?

Halt ran back over the courtyard, and showed the guards outside the castle his oakleaf. Standing tall and walking with no uncertainty, he headed for the dining hall. Anyone he met on the way would simply assume that he had been late for the feast because of ranger business.

Just before he reached the dining hall, he changed paths, gliding up a staircase like a wraith. As a ranger, he was allowed in this area of the castle, but it would still attract puzzled glances were anyone to see him. Not that anyone was going to see him, Halt determined.

He made his way up the spiralling stairs to the top of the north east tower. Before coming to Gorlan, he and Crowley had mapped out the important areas of the castle, so he knew that Baron Ceder's private quarters were in this tower.

There were guards of course, but Halt had no trouble taking care of them. He summoned all his confidence and strode up to them, his hand outstretched to shake.

"Good evening," he said pleasantly. The guards stirred, taken by surprise, and staring at him as if he were mad. Halt quickly twisted his extended hand to the side and seized one guard's helmit. He lifted it clear of the man's head and when the guard glanced up, Halt kicked him, sending him reeling into the wall. Then he spun to the other guard, dodged the now drawn sword, seized his shirt and hurled him down the stairs. It was a simple matter to then knock out the first of this happened in a matter of seconds. Honestly, second rate soldiers were no match for Halt.

Fighting back a feeling of self satisfaction, Halt stepped into the room. It was a typical Baron's haven- plush cusions and comfy chairs ranged around a fire, elegent dining chairs, a desk littered with papers, tapestries on the walls. Further exploration revealed a double bed curtained by green silk.

Halt set to rummaging through the papers and drawers. He had to force himself to slow down and not slam cupboards shut, or send parchment fluttering to the ground. Crowley was in trouble, and he was busy in the Baron's room.

"I can't do anything to help Crowley until the feast ends," Halt reminded himself. Then he could find that Jane healer.

There was nothing of interest in the desk. Halt chewed his lip. There had to be something- he was so certain Ceder was a traitor, even if he had no logical reason for it, only gut instinct. The bedroom, he reminded himself, and flung open the wadrobe door.

At the bottom of the wadrobe was a small chest of drawers. Halt tested them and found that they were locked. He cursed and felt under the bed for a key, then under the matress. The feast would be over soon, he knew, and then Ceder would return to find the unconscious guards. Well, one was unconscious, the other might be dead from the tumble down the stairs. Halt hoped so, he suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that he'd made a crucial mistake.

If the guard wasn't dead by some chance, or had not been knocked unconscious by the fall, chances were good that he had called for reinforcements. And with ten of them, even second rate soldiers posed a threat.

Anyway, he had to get out of here fast. Halt gave up on trying to find a key and instead produced a lockpick from his pocket. He always carried a couple around, but it wasn't his best skill, and it took time.

Every minute he spent picking the lock felt like an age. There were three drawers in the chest, all of them locked, and any of them could contain the evidence he needed. Or none of them.

Halt let out a breath as he heard the lock click. He eased the drawer open. It was full of papers and he smiled to himself in triumph. Right on the top of the pile was a detailed plan outlining the kingdom's leaders and possible ways to kill them.

Halt ruffled through the papers. A map with paths to lead an army and information on the kings private affairs were included. He gathered them all and tucked them into his belt, under his shirt.

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Damn, damn, damn. He'd have to escape out the window. Halt hurried out of the bedroom to the main living and dining area. There was a large window adorned with heavy gold drapes, and he swung it open. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead as he realised he would have to climb down with no rope, and no ladder. Halt had scaled walls before, of course, but each time he feared that this would be the time he slipped.

Perhaps if he hadn't hesitated, he might have got away. But the door slammed open on its hinges, and a dozen guards filed into the room. Halt instantly recognised one as the soldier he'd pushed down the stairs.

Dammit.

Maybe, if he hadn't been so caught up worrying about Crowley, he would have thought things through more. Excuses were no use now though, and Halt carried on with his plan of escaping from the window. He managed to get both his legs out, and even slid down to a handhold, but one of the guards reached down, seized his collar, and heaved him back up.

It didn't matter that Halt was a ranger. He was trespassing in the baron's own quarters. A heavy fist slammed into his head and the world blurred, then burst before his eyes into black.

…...

Halt groaned. His head was pounding and he pressed his palms to his forehead. He was lying on stone, and it was rather uncomfortable, so he dragged himself over to a wall.

The prison was dark and damp. A torch burned in a bracket outside his cell. Slurred voices called out for mercy, and there was an occasional chesty cough. The whole place wreaked of vomit and Halt dropped his head in his hands, feeling that he might contribute to the smell if the world didn't stop spinning soon.

There was a bed of hay in the corner of his room and he managed to move over to it. He became aware of a rat scurrying somewhere nearby.

"Hate prisons," Halt muttered to himself. It wasn't his first time in a cell by any means, but it seemed that each time he was surprised by the disgusting conditions. He reached behind him and felt for the papers. Still there, between his belt and shirt. They hadn't found them, although they must have wondered what he was doing in the baron's rooms. His weapons had been confiscated, of course.

And there was Crowley, he remembered. A stab of fear shot through him. How long had he been out? His friend needed a healer as soon as he could get one and the feast had surely finished by now.

Halt dragged himself to his feet. He staggered, retched, and threw up all over the hay. Well, that was the end of his bed, but he wasn't planning to stick around for long anyway.

He managed to cross the cell to the bars. His knuckles whitened around them, and he leaned his forehead against the cool metal. Halt was recovering- the dizziness and ill feeling was residing. It wouldn't last much longer, and then he'd have to find his way out and get that healer.

He peered along the corridor. One side was a dead end, the other was a door. No doubt there were four or five guards behind that door, ready if a prisoner made it out of his cell.

As he was watching, the door swung open and a cloaked figure entered. Eric. Halt's eyes narrowed, revulsion rising within him that had nothing to do with the sickly smell.

"Hello Halt," Eric said. "Not such a great ranger now, are you? Just look at the mess you're in." His words were vaguely slurred and he hiccuped. Drunk.

Halt spat at him. "You poisoned Crowley," he hissed.

"Maybe I did," Eric shrugged, swaying slightly on his feet. "Maybe it was a test. If you can't avoid a simple poisoning, what good are you as rangers?"

"What did you use?" Halt growled, ignoring the taunt. "Give me the antidote!"

Eric smiled. It was a vindictive smile and it was the first time Halt had ever seen such a satisfied expression on his face.

"I like this," Eric said. "I like having power over you boys. You boys who think you're-_hic-_oh so great because you reformed the- _hic-_corps." He held out a chain, with a key dangling from the end. "Well, look who's oh-so-great now, huh? I could set you free." He swished the key around, grinning as Halt's eyes followed the movement, then tucked it away at his belt. "Well, I ain't goin' to!"

Halt grimanced. He stared at the key for a moment. "Eric," he began in a low, urgent tone. "We always thought you were a talented ranger."

"Lies!" Eric bellowed. "You looked down on me. It's my turn to look down on you!"

"That's not true," Halt tried. "But if you continue with this treachery, then you are the lowest of the low." Each word cracked off his tongue like a whip.

"I am way better 'en you boy!" Eric slurred and in one, fluid movement, he drew his bow and shot Halt through the thigh.

Halt howled in pain and fell to the ground, clutching his leg. At such close range, the arrow had torn clean through the muscle, leaving a bleeding mess. A few salty tears trailed down his cheeks. Through a haze of agony, Halt raised his head and glared daggers at the older ranger.

"You're not better than me," he whispered, his voice scratchy and hoarse, "when you won't even come in and fight me like a man."

Eric's face flushed with rage. He ripped the key from the chain at his belt and flung the door open. Halt had enough time to wonder if taunting the drunk ranger had been a terrible mistake, before Eric's fist slammed into the side of his face.

Halt was breathing hard from the pain that began at his thigh and resonated up his body. His limbs were trembling, and he couldn't gather himself to stand, and Eric was standing over him, hitting and kicking him. Breath, Halt told himself. Breath and think. He saw the glint of steel as Eric drew his saxe knife and just managed to roll out the way.

But even that roll was unbearable when pressure was applied to the arrow wound. A brief ruckus distracted them both when one of the guards opened the door and strode over to the cell, as Halt had guessed would happen.

"What is going on here?" one of them demanded. "Ranger Eric, what are you doing?"

Eric spun around. "Are you doubting me?" he asked. "You think I'm not capable of doing my job?"

Halt used the distraction to kick at Eric's ankles with his uninjured leg. Eric toppled over backwards, on top of Halt, and the young ranger gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg as he clamped his arms around Eric's throat. They were both bloody from the wound, and the scene must have looked gruelling to the guard.

"Enough!" the guard stepped forward to intervene. Halt hissed in frustration.

"Make me stop!" he snapped. The guard drew his sword and raised it, but it was hard to see in the flickering light, and Eric's ranger cloak had spread out to cover most of Halt. Instead the guard bent over to try and remove Halt's hands from Eric's neck, his sword still pointing towards them, and Halt used all of his strength to release Eric and simultaniously push him up onto the sword. Eric screamed, the guard jerked back in shock, and Halt rolled clear.

It was agony, easily one of the most painful fights Halt had ever been in. Even though he was in tremendous pain, he knew if he wanted to survive, he had to act right away. Eric had dropped his saxe, stunned when the sword peirced his lower stomache. Halt grabbed it now, and even managed to stand up though most of his weight was on one leg. Eric's wound wasn't anywhere near fatal, but he was drunk and not thinking clearly and he thought the guard had been the one to attack him, so he seized the guard's sword hand. Halt used this opportunity- with the guard struggling to deal with Eric- to drive the saxe under Eric's ribcage. He then pointed it at the guard's throat.

"You're next," he said. He was wheezing, and his voice was definitely more strained than he would have liked, but the guard got the message regardless.

"Drop the sword," Halt hissed. A clatter of metal against the ground.

The other guards at the entrance called, "everything alright in there?" Halt's eyes flicked towards them, then back at the guard at knife point.

"Tell them yes," he whispered.

"Yes," the guard told his comrades. Halt's legs were starting to tremble, but he refused to allow himself to show weakness. He had to get that healer for Crowley.

"Take off that ranger's cloak," he ordered. If he stooped over, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get up again. The guard removed Eric's cloak.

"Good," Halt said. "Now give it to me." He kicked the sword a good way away, so that the soldier would not be tempted to try and scoop it up while Halt donned the cloak. He drew the hood up to shade his face, then returned the knife to the guard's throat.

"And the weapons," he murmured. "If you try anything, I'll behead you." The guard handed Halt the bow and throwing knife, so the young ranger could arm himself. Now, Halt lowered the knife to be lightly jabbing at the guards lower back.

"I'm ranger Eric," Halt said. "I just finished interrogating the prisoner. Now I've got another job for you, so we're going to walk past those guards." He had to pause to steady himself. If he just stopped thinking about the pain in his leg, maybe this would be easier. It wasn't like he had a choice. If he didn't get out of here, he would die, and probably Crowley as well. "If you misbeahave, you'll be the first to die."

The guard nodded slowly. "I won't," he mumured.

There was one more thing. Halt made the guard search Eric's body until he found a small blue bottle with a cork in it. The poison, Halt guessed, and he tucked it up his sleeve.

Halt kept his head down as they walked past the guards. The folds of the ranger cloak hid the knife at the guard's back, and the blood that coated him. As he limped along, he whispered one more instruction to the guard.

"I can't believe you sprained your ankle," the guard said, just loud enough for his comrades to hear. "But sure, I'll help you with your errands." A snigger rippled around the men.

"So even rangers trip and hurt themselves," one of the younger guards joked. He was shushed by his superiors.

Halt breathed an unheard sigh of relief. Now he just had to find the healer. And pray Crowley was still alive.

**Fight scenes...my least favourite thing to write...meh...**

**If you read Into the Wild, you'll probably know I'm trying to update a chapter a day of something. Well, I failed. I didn't finish this yeasterday and had to finish it today. So I still have todays chapter to write...hm, I think I'll do another Into the Wild chapter probably. **


	4. A Healer

**Chapter 4**

**A Healer**

With the bottle of poison clutched in one hand; a knife pressed into the guards back with the other, Halt staggered along. Each step sent pain radiating from his thigh. His clothes clung to his narrow frame, sticky with blood.

"Where are we going?" the guard asked. Halt applied pressure to the knife, cutting just deep enough for a thin trickle of blood.

"Shut up," he grunted. He'd never been a big talker, and the pain wasn't making him any more inclined to chit chat. He recalled the woman he'd left Crowley with telling him that the healer, Jane, lived at 44 Silver street.

"Lead me to Silver street," he snapped at the guard. Halt didn't waste any time on 'or else' threats; the knife was more than sufficient.

It was late enough in the evening for no one to be out of their houses, so the smaller than average man staggering behind the fully armoured (and quite terrified) guard did not attract any stares. Halt was grateful for this, at least, and when he reached 44 Silver street, he swiftly slammed the guard's head against the doorframe. He dragged the limb body into the bushes. By the time the guard woke up, Halt hoped to be out of Gorlan fief.

He rapped on the door, in case the impact of the guard's head against the frame had not been enough to alert the occupants of their visitor.

The door edged open, painfully slowly. Halt had to stop himself from seizing the wood and slamming it back on its hinges- he didn't hold back because of politeness, rather because he'd have a lower chance of persuading the healer to give him an antidote if she got offended. Not that Halt wouldn't march right in and threaten her if she said no, but still...

At first, he only saw her weathered knuckles over the edge of the door, and long fingers like the spindly branches of a willow tree. Then her arm and half of a torso, a tawny robe draped over the body. Her head was cowled, and he had to peer under the shadow to see a knobbly chin, a narrow face and wispy hair. She came up to his shoulder, and when she pushed the hood back, her eyes glowed like green embers. Halt noticed that she was actually younger than he'd first thought. Her extreme skinniness and lined skin made her seem ancient, although he recognised that the lines were not deep. Stress had taken its toll on this woman.

"Are you Jane the healer?" Halt asked. Jane nodded, and he could almost imagine her neck creaking with the movement.

"I need an antidote for a poison," Halt said. He waved the little blue bottle.

"I have no antidote," Jane said. She went to close the door- much faster than she'd opened it- and Halt jammed his foot in the way. He winced, swaying slightly, and his thigh burned.

"Yes you do," he said and proceeded to push his way into the room. He took her by the shoulders, leaning his weight on her, both to prevent her from running away and to keep himself upright. "If you don't give it to me, I will kill you."

Jane flinched. Her eyes widened, and it gave her a more youthfull, vulnerable look.

"I know Ceder," Halt spat out the name, "didn't want anyone healing Crowley, but no true healer would listen to that rubbish."

Something in her stance wavered. Halt shook her gently. "Do this, Jane. Give me the antidote, and I will leave without bothering you further. I'll pay you too- I'll pay double."

That did it. Jane nodded and took the blue bottle from him.

"I'll make one." Halt told her all of Crowley's symptoms. She had little sacks of plants hanging on iron hooks on one wall, and she began to select from each one and grind them with two, heavy grey stones. While he waited impatiently, leaning heavily against a table, Halt had time to study the room in more detail- he had of course taken notice of his surroundings when he first entered.

There were bookcases with many books, none of which were in perfect order- they'd had pages added and torn out as Jane discovered her own remedies. There was only one window, and it was small and covered by drapes, so the light came from dozens of flickering candles. Cobwebs and dust hung in the corners, and a musky smell of old books, mould and incense made the whole place seem suffocating. There was a door that probably led to Jane's private quarters.

"Done," Jane said shortly and held out a small bowl with a green fluid in it.

"That's not much," Halt pointed out.

"You won't need much," Jane told him. "Now pay me. Double. Five gold coins."

Expensive, but not an amount Halt wouldn't spend to save his friend. However, the guards had confiscated his money pouch before they took him to prison (greedy beggers).

"My friend has money. Come with me and he'll pay you," Halt said.

Jane's eyebrows drew together suspiciously, so Halt offered insurance, "you can hold onto me to make sure I don't run away."

With some reluctance, Jane clutched his arm. Halt allowed himself to lean a tiny bit of weight on her, to take the pressure of his bleeding thigh. A blurry darkness pooled in the fringes of his vision, spreading until he stumbled and had to clutch at Jane for support.

She cast a practised gaze over him, but did not offer to tend his wound. As they walked on, Halt found himself relying on her support more and more. It was all he could do to keep the bowl of antidote upright, and not spill it. Crowley's life might well depend on his ability to keep his hands steady in tremendous pain.

"Here," Halt gasped, and pushed Jane gently, to guide her in the direction of the house. He rapped on the door, counting under his breath as he waited for someone to answer.

It opened and the man- Halt recalled his name was Doug-glared at them. "Oh, it's you again," he muttered. "Hello Jane."

"Hello Doug," Jane said weakly. She glanced at Halt. "So give him the antidote and give me my money."

Doug didn't want to let the ranger inside his house, especially now he was bloody and bruised, and looked even more suspicious. Halt and Jane were forced to wait outside while Doug carried Crowley out to them.

Halt grimanced at the sight of his friend. Crowley was frothing at the mouth, his skin as white as paper, the veins on his neck sticking out. His lips puckered like a fish out of water and beads of sweat clung to his face.

With Doug's help, Halt managed to pour the antidote down his friend's mouth and get him to swallow. There was no immediate change, save for Crowley settling into a more restful sleep.

"He'll be fine in a day or two," Jane said impatiently. "Now give me my money."

"And get out of my house," Doug put in.

Friendly place was Gorlan. Halt didn't bother to point out that technically, he wasn't in Doug's house, he was standing on the doorstep. He tore Crowley's money pocket off of the unconscious man's belt and tossed it to Jane.

"There should be enough in there," he grunted. There was, and Doug handed Crowley to Halt. The injured man swayed under the weight. The door was slammed in front of him, and Jane stormed back to the safety of her home.

Abelard and Cropper were still at the castle stables. It seemed like decades since they'd ridden up there. Even longer since they'd competed to buy Pauline a present. That seemed so childish now. But then again, if he lost, Crowley was going to ask her out. And the red haired ranger certainly didn't want a childish relationship with her.

Halt shook himself. He wasn't going to think bad things about his friend in this situation. He had to focus on getting them home. Somehow, he had to find the energy and strength to carry his friend to the stables, even as his legs trembled, and firy shots of pain rocked his body, and his eyes burned to close. Sleep. He wanted to sleep.

He didn't. Halt had to half drop his friend and drag him along the ground, but step by weary step, they made it back to the castle. His breath rasped in his throat, and oh god his leg hurt. He needed to rest. No, he needed to get to the horses. Rest. Horses. Rest. Horses.

Four, five, six times, he stopped to let the pain wash over him, than fought it back and continued on. Twice, he stumbled and fell. One of those times, he blacked out, but he came to quickly and staggered along.

The stables came into view. Halt left his friend lying in the shadows of an old oak tree and retrieved Abelard and Cropper. With a great amount of mostly mental willpower, he heaved Crowley onto Cropper's saddle and tied him in place.

At first, when he tried to mount Abelard, a wave of dizziness made him fall back, his head spinning. On his second attempt, he managed to drag himself into the saddle. Halt urged his faithful horse onwards to Redmont, knowing Cropper would follow, and eager to reach home.

…...

When Jane returned home, she realised she had another customer waiting for her. Inwardly, she groaned. Then she saw who it was and curtseyed.

"I think you know what I'm looking for," the customer said.

Jane nodded slowly. She did know. It was what set her apart from other healers in Gorlan. She didn't just offer remedies.

"Here, I have one on me," she said. She held out the little blue bottle, that the battered ranger had never taken back from her.

Morgarath smiled.

…...

The ranger horses cantered under a half moon. Around midnight, a light rain began to fall, that soaked into their clothes to their skin. Trees blurred at the edge of Halt's vision. He swayed, almost falling off his horse, before he snapped fully awake again.

It happened persistantly, at irregular intervals. He would black out for a moment and pitch forward, before remembering where he was. The dizziness didn't seem to be fading. Vagually, as if through a fog, he realised he'd lost a lot of blood from the deep cut on his thigh.

Sometime later, though Halt wasn't sure how much time had passed, Crowley stirred awake. A mop of sandy red hair appeared over the saddle, as the ranger glanced around, confused. He muttered a string of nonsense- something about Pauline and Gorlan, and Halt heard his own name in their too-then promptly fell asleep again.

Up ahead, a shadowy figure of a rider on a horse appeared over the horisen. Halt was veiwing the world as if in a dream now. Like watching himself on a stage play, where he knew nothing can hurt the audience.

But logically, Halt knew that this mysterious rider could hurt him. He knew he wouldn't be able to fight. All his strength had been used up; sapped away.

There was something in him that seemed to give up then. His hazy mind started to close down, and he fell from the saddle. His foot caught in the stirrups, so he was dragged behind Abelard, and the pain that caused sharpened his mind again. He kicked free of the stirrups, an animal whine escaping his throat from sheer agony.

The breif clarity only lasted a second. He lay wheezing on the ground, barely registering that Abelard had stopped and was nudging him, and that Cropper had stopped as well. Halt couldn't fight back the pain anymore. The unkown rider reached him just as his vision faded to black, and he slipped from consciousness.

**I...have been using way too many cliffhangers lately. It's a shorter chapter, so I suppose I could keep writing more...or I could leave it on a cliffhanger. Want to keep people reading, after all. ;)**

**You know what you should do now? You should review. **


	5. A Drink

**Chapter 5**

**A Drink**

It was a gradual progression to consciousness. Halt hazily registered that the black was not the night sky as it had been in his dream, rather it was the back of his eyelids. He thought at first that he was in his bed. Then he realised the mattress was thin and the blankets heavier than he was used to.

The events of the previous day leaked back into his consciousness and, suddenly alarmed, he sat up with a cry of, "Crowley!" This set his head spinning, and he felt himself tumble from the bed in a brief loss of coordination. Strong hands lifted him and pushed him back against the mattress. Halt automatically struggled. When he tried to open his eyes, his head spun so much he had to close them.

"Rest." The voice was a little husky, with the deep thrum, a stern edge, and the slightest burr of a hibernian accent. It was a vaguelly familiar voice, Halt thought, and he wondered how that could be when he hadn't known anyone in Hibernia for years.

The voice continued, "Lie still, you ungrateful brat," and then it clicked in Halt's mind.

"So old you aren't strong enough to hold me still?" the young ranger murmured. He stopped stuggling and allowed himself to ease his eyes open, waiting for the dizziness to recide. The owner of the voice was frowning at the comment, the corner of his mouth lilted in a half smirk, half grimance.

"You might show some respect," the man growled. He released the younger man, and edged further along the bed to give Halt room to sit up. "Though come to think of it, I don't expect any from you."

Halt leaned against the headboard to support himself as he dragged himself up. He crossed his legs, scowling as the room spun around. This groggy feeling, like he had been weighed down by rocks, was most unpleasant.

"Hullo Pritchard," he said. "Have you drugged me?" Their voices sounded muffled to his ears, and his head was spinning, but the wound in his leg and his bruises weren't hurting.

Pritchard grinned. "You're so drugged up you won't be able to feel a thing."

Halt grimanced. He glanced around, too fast, and clutched his head, breathing deeply as he waited for the world to still. Then he scanned the room more slowly: white beds, white walls, a bookshelf and a tuft of red hair peeking out of the adjacent bed- Crowley.

"Crowley's fine," Pritchard said, guessing his former pupil's next question. "You gave him the antidote in time. He's just sleeping it off."

"Good," Halt said tiredly. His eyes were already starting to droop. His shoulders sagged and his head dipped forward, but he shook it off. "Why did you drug me?"

"So you wouldn't be in pain when the healers stitched up your leg," Pritchard told him cheerfully. Halt glared at his ex-mentor.

"I was unconscious." He fingered the white bandage around his thigh, tracing the raised bumps of the stitches.

"You could have woken up," Pritchard shrugged. "Plus, the healers thought you should stay here for two to three days, _at least_. We didn't want you running away too fast."

Halt certainly wasn't going to be doing any running. He could barely remain sitting. It hadn't even been five minutes and he wanted to keel over.

"You should get some sleep." Pritchard read his posture.

"What are you doing here?" Halt asked, ignoring the suggestion.

"Oh, I got tired of Hibernia. It was fine for a while, but-"

"His girlfriend broke up with him," Crowley put in from the other side of the room. He rolled over, blinking wearily.

Pritchard flushed a little. "No," he coughed. "That was unrelated. Actually, I thought it was time for me to rejoin the corps." After Halt and Crowley reformed the rangers, Pritchard declared he had built a home (with his girlfriend) in hibernia and he didn't feel the time was right to return then. Now, it seemed, he was back.

"Good to have you home," Crowley said sleepily. "We all missed you." He was hugging his pillow. Halt recalled him mistaking himself for Pauline and figured the sandy haired ranger got overly affectionate when he was tired.

"The accent is a nice touch," Halt raised an eyebrow at his former mentor. Pritchard grinned at him, fully aware he'd aquired a distinct hibernian burr over the years.

"Now we match," he said. "But seriously, get some sleep. The both of you."

It seemed no matter how old they got, they would always be under the influence of their mentor. The young rangers protested, but were too tired and dizzy to stand up. Pritchard closed the thick drapes and hid the lanterns out of their reach. It was sleep, or die of boredom.

"Not tired," Halt muttered. Pritchard shrugged unsympathetically.

"Count sheep or something. I don't want to be finding the two of you half dead from poison, wounds and exhaustion again any time soon- lucky that was though, huh?"

"What were you doing anyway?" Crowley asked.

"I was on my way to my post. I've been appointed as ranger of Norgate." Pritchard beamed. "If you're not tired- even though I'm certain you are-"

"Because you drugged us," Halt growled.

"He drugged us?" Crowley asked.

"Not you, just him," Pritchard waved it off. "You've already been drugged at Gorlan. And I'll be asking all about that tommorrow, after you're rested."

"You can ask now," Halt said. "I don't want to sleep." Despite his eyes burning to close, and his foggy mind already begginning to shut down, Halt desperately wanted to stay awake to talk to his mentor, whom he hadn't seen for almost a year, and also to see how Pauline was.

"Well," Pritchard rubbed his bristly chin thoughtfully. "Let's talk then. I went on a nice ride recently. The sky was blue. The grass was green. There was a fly buzzing on my horses neck. I waved it away." He was speaking slowly, drowsily. "I smelt salt on the breeze. Dust rose from the path. The pastures had a few cattle on them. There were no clouds in the sky."

Crowley let out a loud snore. Halt fell asleep seconds later. Pritchard smirked to himself and left the room as quietly as he could- which was very quiet considering he was a ranger.

…...

When Crowley next woke up, he was pleased to have energy zipping through his veins. He stretched his arms out, cracked his fingers, and flexed his toes. The poison had gone from his system, and he felt fit and healthy once more.

He noticed that Pauline was settled on Halt's bed. Her blonde hair was free and Halt was twirling a strand in his fingers. Crowley had the odd sensation of sitting back and watching, of not being included, of being a third wheel.

"Hey Pauline," he said, determined to get her attention. There was a part of him that was used to being the outgoing, cheerful one, who's shy, hibernian friend hovered behind him, awkward in social situations. He didn't like this new position of being...the drop off. It seemed like they wouldn't care if he disappeared.

These were ridiculous thoughts! Hadn't Halt just risked his life in order to save Crowley? Of course they cared! He shook off his sordid mood.

"Hello Crowley," Pauline smiled at him. "Good to see you've recovered."

Crowley grinned at her. Halt frowned, which only increased the delight.

"Thanks, 'line," he said. He didn't fail to notice Halt's glare. Oh, he could read that expression. _Don't give call her 'line. You aren't close enough for degrading nicknames. _

_How was that degrading?_

Crowley shook himself before he started argueing with an imaginary Halt. The real Halt shifted his position so that he could rub his injured thigh. Crowley's eyes narrowed- that was clever, bring attention to the fact that he was in pain.

"Does it hurt a lot?" Pauline asked. Dammit, Crowley thought, she fell for the manouvre!

"Not too much," Halt grunted. "Pritchard's drugs wore off, is all."

Pauline touched the bandage and gently stroked his leg. Crowley twisted the blankets in a tight knot. Halt didn't seem smug about the victory, and Crowley figured that maybe there hadn't been an ulterior motive, maybe he simply was in pain. The sandy haired ranger felt bad for a minute. Then he saw how worried Pauline was, and his stomache clenched.

_Crowley_ had been the one close to death. _He _had been the one who deserved to be fussed over. But Halt had completed the mission single handedly- he'd given evidence of Ceder's trechery to Pritchard- he'd saved Crowley's life, and he'd tried to nobly escape from Gorlan while bleeding severly. And now he had Pauline, who was vainly trying to hide her concern about him.

And Crowley was all alone.

He watched them fuss over each other for another half hour. He'd lost his customary grin and stared blank faced. They didn't notice. Why would they? They were too busy eyeing each other and placing comforting touches. It was revolting! They might as well be going out already.

Pritchard joined them, and he sat with Crowley. He took one look at the young ranger's blank face and sighed. "And I thought I was having girl troubles," he muttered.

Crowley sniffed. "She only cares about Halt. She's not paying _me _any attention. Bet she wouldn't even care if the poison had killed me."

"Oh don't be such a child," Pritchard scoffed. He ruffled his former apprentice's sandy hair. "She'd do well with Halt. He's a remarkable young man."

Pauline let out a rising peal of laughter, and Halt even smiled a bit. Crowley wondered what they were talking about. He also wondered if she'd ever laughed so much at something he'd said.

"Remarkable, huh?" Crowley muttered sourly. He was well aware that Halt was the most talented ranger in the corps, but it only bothered him when he was sulking.

"Both my former apprentices are," Pritchard said, as if he'd guessed what the young ranger had been thinking. Well, he probably had. It must have showed on Crowley's face. "Except when they're sulking and being childish," he added sternly.

"Now," he continued. "Aren't you going to throw me a welcome home party?"

"It's Pauline's birthday soon," Crowley said. "We've already organised a party for that."

Pritchard shook his head. "Have you forgotten everything I taught you? Two parties are better than one!"

…...

A welcome party it was! As soon as Halt and Crowley were released from the infirmary, the sandy haired ranger set about inviting all of their friends. The cabin by the woods was decorated with bright blue and red streamers. A young chef, Chubb, whipped up plates of cheese rolls, biscuits, sandwiches and a multi layered, lathered in jam and syrup, chocolate cake.

Crowley was fairly proud of his party throwing skills. He'd even found a local band willing to play some foot-tapping, jaunty tunes. There was wine and beer aplenty, and after a few drinks, Crowley found himself in the centre of the clearing, singing along to Old Joe Smoke and dancing a jig that he thought was quite fine.

Pritchard had drunk more than his share of the alcohol as well, and he giggled gleefully as he and Crowley twirled on the dance floor together. They collapsed in a heap of drunken laughter, after which Pritchard clapped the young man on the back and shouted, "best party ever!" He was fated to say much the opposite the morning after, but for now, the two rangers beamed at each other.

Halt was standing alone behind all the party goers, without even a drink in hand. Crowley spotted him and was about to approach when someone beat him to it- someone being a remarkably pretty blonde courier, currently not wearing her uniform but a silver dress adorned with white flowers. She had a flute of white wine in her hand, and she smiled all over as she talked to the grim-faced ranger.

Unreasonably irritated, Crowley started towards them. He was intercepted by a drunk, red haired girl, who he vaguelly recalled was Pauline's friend. She put her hands on his shoulders and he spun her around, then gently pushed her in the direction of another, more willing dance partner. Crowley continued to his best friend and flung a clumsy arm around his shoulders.

"Halt!" he said gleefully. He was sober enough to notice the flash of disappointment on Pauline's face, and drunk enough not to take a hint.

"What?" Halt snapped, trying to remove the vice like grip around his shoulders. "You reek!"

"What'cha doin' all by yourself?" Crowley slurred, pretending to be more drunk than he was, for reasons even he wasn't sure of.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not by myself," Halt answered. "Get off, before I throw you in the river." He wrestled with the offending arm, and Crowley clamped his other arm around his shoulders in response.

"Don't be such a party pooper!" Crowley exclaimed. "Live a little! Have a drink!" _Stop talking to Pauline. _

Halt growled. Pauline gave a smooth chuckle.

"Go on," she encouraged. "I'll talk to you later." She turned and mingled with her friends in the crowd.

"Dammit, Crowley," Halt hissed. "What did you do that for?"

Crowley shrugged. "You two look awfully lovey-dovey."

"Don't be absurd!" Halt argued, his cheeks aflame.

"Maybe I should ask her out now, while I still have a chance," Crowley mused. He was rewarded by his arms thrown from his friend's shoulders, and his collar gripped by strong hands.

"Don't you dare," Halt warned.

"Why not?" Crowley smirked. He wasn't even sure what he was trying to do, he just said whatever came to mind.

"Because-" Halt spluttered. "Damn you! I'm getting a drink."

Crowley trailed behind him. "Just admit you like her," he called. "Like, _like_ her."

Halt grabbed a glass of beer. "Shut up Crowley. Look, I did what you wanted, I'm having a drink. So you can shut up now." He choked down a mouthful, his cheeks still bright red.

"Maybe you shouldn't," Crowley said, a slightly mocking and challenging tone to his voice. "I know what you're like with liquor."

"I'm not that bad," Halt muttered, swallowing another few moutfuls. The alcohol burned his throat, and he glared at his friend.

Crowley shrugged. He grabbed himself a drink and swigged it in one go. "We all know you can't hold liquor like the rest of us. Pauline deserves a real man."

"You're such a- fine, is this what you want?" Halt drank the rest."There, now stop being so ridiculous."

"If I'm being so ridiculous, then why did you drink it?" Crowley challenged. "You usually go straight to chucking me in the river without humouring me. Could it be that you _are _trying to prove something?"

"You're right, let's go to the river," Halt snarled. His hand darted out to catch Crowley's collar.

"I won't ask her out if you beat me in a drinking contest," Crowley said quickly.

Halt paused. He knew he shouldn't, but even the one drink he'd had was starting to blur his inhibitions, and even though he knew these pathetic challenges would keep being initiated, he couldn't help being dragged in. The idea of Crowley and Pauline together was just too...sickening to considor.

"What terms?" he asked crisply.

"Whoever doesn't manage to drink ten glasses loses."

Halt scowled. "Fine."

As he drank his first few glasses, Crowley watched his friend carefully for any sign of weakness. He was one hundred precent confident in his own ability to win. By the third glass they ended up going sip for sip, certain to match each other. Someone had lit a bonfire and Pritchard was leading a dance around the flames, but the young rangers took little notice of this.

"So how do you really feel about Pauline?" Crowley questioned.

"She's a friend."

"Hmm." Another glass empty. The moon was high above them- it must have been past midnight.

On to the fifth glass and Crowley asked again.

"How do you feel about Pauline?"

"_Crowley_." By now, Halt's voice was slurred. "I don't love Pauline."

Crowley blinked. _Love?_ When had that come into it? He hadn't thought about love. Or had he? He was having trouble remembering. Did he love Pauline? Well, he certainly liked her as more than a friendly like. Oh well, even if he did, Halt said he didn't, so it was okay. Crowley's head was starting to feel foggy and he had a sudden brainwave. He shouldn't be sitting around like a boring old man, he should be out there dancing. He took Halt's hand and dragged him onto the dance floor.

"I love this song!" Crowley cried. He did all his best dance moves (including the chicken wing) as he screamed the lyrics out. Halt wiggled his limbs and, because he didn't know the words, yelled "LA LA LA LA LALALA LA," along to the tune. Not that there was much of a tune as the band had had their share of the drinks.

"Oh my god," Pauline said. Crowley glanced around and had a sinking feeling, though he couldn't remember why. Halt grinned gleefully and hugged her.

"Pauliney-Loo!" he cried. "I missed you."

"Oh my god," Pauline said again.

For some reason Crowley thought this was a bad turn of events. He didn't like being around when bad things happened, so he found the pretty red haired girl and danced with her for a while. But he couldn't help keeping an eye on Halt.

"I think you've had too much to drink," Pauline said weakly.

"No, I can hold my licooor-liqueeer-li-li-lilililililiquor," Halt gabbled. He promptly threw up on her shoes and fainted.

…...

Crowley woke to a raging headache. He recognised the symptoms of a hangover immediately and buried his head in his pillow. Or wait- it wasn't a pillow. It was a rock.

"Arrgh," Crowley groaned and sat up. His head spun- reminding him distinctly of his time in the hospital- and he vomited. In a river. He was lying just beside the river? He saw his shoe lodged on the other bank. Halt must have thrown him in again...

He frowned, trying to remember what had happened past the darkness of his memory. A drinking competition- oh, he _hadn't, _he knew Halt couldn't hold his liquor. But he had, and then he recalled Halt dancing and Pauline and-

-"Ooops," Crowley muttered. He hadn't intended to embarrass his friend so badly. Or maybe he had, in his drunken state, but he certainly regretted it now.

He dragged himself up the river back and wobbled back to the clearing. He saw three tree trunks for every one, and he crashed and tripped on many occassions, and his head was pure agony, but he reached the clearing. It was midafternoon and most of the guests had left, or were leaving. A small fraction of them were still lying around. Crowley hoped they recovered soon, as most of them were responsible for protecting Redmont fief. Maybe his party throwing skills weren't as great, or as wise, as he'd thought.

"Halt?" he asked vaguelly, searching the littered bodies. Pritchard was collapsed on the steps leading to the cabin and Crowley tripped over him.

Prtichard growled, "stupid apprentices." Crowley staggered up to the front door. He blinked, threw up, stared at the mess, then walked past it. Halt was lying on the couch, a blanket covering him. Someone must have moved him. Probably Pauline got a friend to carry him, and arranged the blanket herself. Crowley fought off a shaft of jealousy and collapsed on top of his friend.

"Argh!" Halt grumbled. "Oh my _head._Pritchard's drugged me again, hasn't he?"

"Fraid not," Crowley muttered. "Don't talk so loudly. I didn't stumble all the way here to get screamed at."

"You're the one who's yelling. Shut up!"

"No you shut up!"

"Argh!" they both groaned and clutched their heads.

"What happened?" Halt asked, his eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out which of the Crowley's looking distinctly guilty was the real one. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed, and hazily recovered a dream of dancing and making a complete fool of himself in front of Pauline.

"We were drinking," Crowley mumbled.

Halt sniffed. "I've sunk to your level." Then he groaned and threw up. A horrible thought occurred to him. "That was a dream, wasn't it? I didn't actually..?"

Crowley shufted awkwardly. "Pauline didn't seem to mind too much...from what I remember."

"Oh god!" Halt cried and buried his head in the blanket.

"You!" he said suddenly. "You got me drunk deleberately! I remember, you said it was a competition."

Crowley winced. "Shhhh," he said. "And...yeah. But I was already drunk, I didn't know what I was doing!"

"You sure seemed to," Halt hissed. "I suppose it was all a part of your plan to steal Pauline away."

"So you admit you like her?"

"No! You just wanted to humiliate me!"

Crowley grimanced. "Oh, come off it, Halt. It wasn't like that."

"Get lost," Halt snarled. "I don't want to see your face."

"Don't be like that," Crowley tried. "Look, I'll clean up the cabin and make lunch and everything." He fought back rising nausea and ignored the ringing in his ears to smile at Halt- at all four Halts.

"Go back to your fief. No one wants you here."

"I'm staying here for Pauline's birthday." Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say, because Halt seized an empty glass on the coffee table and chucked it at him. It smashed on the wall behind him and glass showered the floor.

"Halt," Crowley said miserably. "What do you want me to say? I'm sorry? I am, you know, I really am."

"I don't want you to say anything," Halt said evenly. "I want you to leave."

Crowley dragged himself to his feet. "We're friends- brothers. Brothers don't hold grudges against each other."

"Brothers don't intentionally set each other up to be humiliated in front of the girl they..." Halt broke off.

Crowley didn't bother prompting him to finish. He'd gotten his confession.

"Fine, if you're going to be like that, I'll leave." His head was spinning but he made it to the door. The wood seemed slippery on his palm as he pushed it open.

"I should have let the poison kill you," Halt said softly.

Crowley clenched his teeth. He had half a mind to turn around and tell his friend- ex-friend, whatever- what he was thinking. That Halt was spoilt, that he was used to being the best. Best ranger, best strategist, the one who was always right. The one that Crowley always came second to. And Halt took everything for granted, he put no effort to retaining friendships, everyone just naturally gravitated to him.

Well, it wasn't worth it. Crowley's head was pounding and it just wasn't worth the effort. He'd let Halt have the last word this time, and if it was the last word ever exchanged between them, so be it.

**Uh...so maybe a bit of a let down after the cliffie...and yeah, Halt was OOC. He wasn't co-orporating with me. Er, I mean, not talking about the drunk bit. He was too OOC for words there. I'm not sure what happened...it turned into pure crack. **

**And then at the end, they just sounded like quibbling teenage girls with a crush. It bothers me a lot. So, I guess I don't like much of this chapter at all. There's so much wrong with it. Crowley seems to have a big motive hole...plus, I'm certain its unrealistic, as I confess I have never gotten drunk at a party or been hungover. **


	6. A Fight

**Chapter 6**

**A Fight**

**For a mini-fic (that's what I call it, I dunno, somewhere between a real chapter fic and a one shot) I sure haven't done much work on it. It was supposed to take me three weeks, maybe four, just for my own amusement. I've been lazy. Well, I'm finishing it off now before I start my next chapter fic. **

"What a fine day! What a fine day indeed! Never has the sun shone so fair on my skin," Pritchard hummed. He stretched his arms up to the sky, shifting in the saddle to get more comfortable. The blue sky devoid of clouds, the green of the grass, the dusty old trail their horses were trotting along- it was song worthy. Pritchard had a grin fixed on his face. It was just that kind of day.

There was only one dour point on this morning. Well, two dour points technically. Pritchard looked first to his left, where Crowley was clenching Cropper's reigns in stony silence, then to his right, where Halt wore a permanent scowl.

"A day like this makes one feel gleeful inside," Pritchard continued. "The sun is such pleasant company, it doesn't matter about gloom and grumpy riding beside me."

Halt scrutionised the apple tree they were passing. Crowley remained unusually stoic.

"Oh come on lads!" Pritchard cried. "Just because you aren't speaking to each other is no cause to ignore _me_."

"Sorry, Pritchard," Crowley offered a wan smile. "It's not your fault that your other ex-apprentice is a dolt."

Pritchard could feel waves of tension in the air. He'd been at the party; seen Halt's humiliation, and he suspected the pretty blonde girl was part of the rift between the two. But he wouldn't blame her, no, this was the fault of his childish apprentices. To think they were highly regarded as promising rangers!

It was such a shame too. He'd been very fond of Crowley when training the boy, and had equal affection for the runaway prince he'd met in hibernia. Since he'd stayed behind when Halt crossed the channel to Araluen, he'd never witnessed the meeting of the two, though frequent letters from both had let him know what was going on and the latest news on the reforming of the corps.

He'd assumed from the context of the letters they were getting along fine, as he had suspected they would. It was a disappointment to find this was no longer the case.

"Pritchard, did you hear something?" Halt asked in response to Crowley talking. He made a show of looking around the trees, and Crowley's scowl didn't escape his attention. "Nope, nevermind, I think it was just a twittering bird."

Pritchard frowned. "Now, Halt, that's bratty of you."

"What's that Pritchard?" Crowley asked, just to make it clear he was addressing his former mentor and not the smoldering young man. "You think Halt is bratty? I think he's more childish myself. Such a child, he couldn't even notice me and Cropper, and I wasn't even trying to remain unseen. Obviously Halt's going to need to work more on his ranger detecction skills."

"Crowley," Pritchard sighed wearily. "Your comebacks aren't as clever as you think they are."

"Funny that you would bring up Crowley, Pritchard," Halt said. "I don't think he's very clever either, quite the opposite actually."

Pritchard set his teeth. He clenched the reigns and had to force his hands to relax his grip. The sunny joy that had tickled his heart was rapidly dissipating.

"Look you two," he began in his sternest and official ranger voice, "we are here on a mission, and we are going to have to work together."

Indeed, they were riding to Gorlan to arrest Baron Ceder. They had their evidence, and the king had deemed it sufficient for an immediate arrest and a trial. That was all well and good, but why, Halt had asked, did this warrant the attention of three rangers? Pritchard had pointed out to them that their last visit hadn't gone too well and extra back up might be handy. He also stressed that the arrest of a baron was a big deal. Plus, he added, Ceder had them outnumbered in Gorlan and if his people followed him after he was outed as a traitor, the rangers could have some trouble in their hands.

To address this matter, and to make more of an official show of things, they were followed by a dozen soldiers. Dreary people soldiers, Pritchard thought. They just clopped on behind them without offering any intelligent conversation. Although he had to admit, he wouldn't approach the seething young rangers if he was a mere soldier.

"You don't have to worry Pritchard," Crowley said. "You and I always work well together." He deliberatly stressed the 'you' and the 'I' to enforce that he had written Halt off.

"Pritchard, we'll be fine once we've offloaded one of the more useless comrades." Halt shot a pointed look over in the sandy haired ranger's direction.

At least, the use of the word 'comrade' was an improvement, Pritchard told himself. The 'useless' part wasn't winning any medals in a nice-thing-to-say-to-your-best-friend competition, but a useless comrade was better than a useless enemy. Pritchard frowned, pausing to stare at his hands. Actually, a useless enemy was the best kind, and a useless comrade was wasting space on a mission. He supposed it wasn't much of an improvement after all. With that realisation, he ran out of patience and urged his horse ahead of the others.

"Pritchard, wait for me!" Crowley protested.

"I'm not riding beside that thing!" Halt snorted in disgust. 'That thing' was of course referring to Crowley.

Needless to say, Pritchard set his horse to a gallop and didn't look back at the others until they reached Gorlan.

…...

Alas, Gorlan did not make his companions any more sufferable. They set up camp just outside the gates, for they planned to sleep before confronting Ceder and there would be plenty of time for that in the morning. Crowley and Halt set up their tents as far away from each other as possible, with Crowley's by a stream, and Halt's by a wisened oak tree, and all the soldiers in between.

Pritchard rigged his own tent near to the campfire, which was a far more sensible option than what the other rangers had chosen to do. Youngsters, he scoffed to himself, they fall in love for the first time and lose all their senses. He shared out bread and cheese for supper, with steaming cups of coffee for all except one infuriating soldier who preferred tea.

Halt took his share to his tent and ate alone. Crowley toasted his bread over the fire with the others, making up stories about how Halt didn't know what a hairbrush was, and how Halt had been raised by pigs, and how Halt couldn't hold his liquor, until the main character of these tales stormed over. Crowley scrabbled to his feet, not fast enough, and Halt dragged him to the stream and threw him in.

"Don't mind them," Pritchard said to the alarmed soldiers, an apologetic note to his voice. The soldiers had suffered through Crowley's stories uncomfortably- young though he was, Halt was already beginning to develop a reputation and the soldiers weren't too old themselves.

They heard yelps and whines from the sandy haired ranger. Minutes later, Halt stormed back across the clearing to his tent. When he was sure it was safe, a sopping wet and rather gloomy Crowley left the river and retired to his own tent. They heard him muttering about 'hibernians that need anger management therapy'.

Pritchard had a deep and meaningful conversation with the soldiers about the weather, then he sent them all off to bed. The rangers would split the watch, for the soldiers had spent all day struggling to catch up with them on horses that weren't bred for such speed and they were tired, as well as astounded at the odd behaviour of rangers.

"Might as well be a damn babysitter," he growled to himself. "Halt and Crowley sure need one." He shook his head as he stacked the last of the plates and doused the fire. He figured this blonde girl (what was her name again? Pauline?) must be pretty special to have them fighting over her in such a manner. Mind you, it didn't take much to get them fighting. He remembered the time he'd tried to confiscate fourteen year old Crowley's pet rock because it was distracting the apprentice from practise. That grudge had lasted weeks.

For the first time in all his long years of campaigning, Pritchard was relieved to take first watch. He wedged himself between two trees where he could see the entire campground. The night brought treasured peace and sacred quiet. He smiled to himself as he knelt, still, alert, not thinking much about anything, simply devoting his attention to scanning the area.

If it wasn't for the ache of weariness in his bones, he might have taken the second watch too. As it was, he shook Crowley awake, gave stern instructions to wake Halt for the third watch later, and crawled into his tent.

Crowley blinked away the last of sleep as he settled into his watch. He had a lot on his mind, and in the stillness of the night, there was nothing to distract him from his whirling thoughts. Pauline's smile haunted him; he thought he might not deserve that smile. He felt thoroughly rotten when he reflected on his recent interactions with Halt.

Even so, he had taken great offence at some of the things said between them, and he'd tried to apologise at first; he wasn't the only one in the wrong, even if some of his actions had been regrettable. If Halt was going to hold a grudge, Crowley would do the same.

When his watch was over, he made his way to Halt's tent and shook the ranger awake. Halt's eyes opened immadiately.

"My watch already?" he asked, forgetting they weren't on speaking terms. He remembered a second later and huffed, shoving the other ranger out the way and storming out of the tent.

Crowley scampered after him, rubbing his arm where he'd been shoved rather roughly. "Temper management," he muttered to himself. He was suddenly looking forward to his warm, cosy bedroll.

Halt was making his way to the watching spot. They all knew how to find the best location, so without discussing it between them they all settled on the gap between the same two trees.

"Try to stay awake," Crowley said. The patronising tone was deliberate. "I don't want hords of Ceder's men tying me up while I'm sleeping."

Halt glowered at him. "If Ceder's men turn up, I swear I will hand you over and beg them to kill you." Venom lathered his words. Crowley was quite appalled. Had they been on good terms, he would have laughed it off as grim humour, but now he wasn't sure.

"What an honourable thing to do," Crowley scoffed. "I'll let Pauline know you said that."

Halt turned and his face twisted unpleasantly. If he hadn't been a ranger, he might have stomped over. As it was, his feet made no noise and he glided until their faces were inches apart.

"You bring her up everytime," Halt hissed. He bunched Crowley's collar in his hands, yanking the sandy haired ranger closer. "Can't you just shut up about Pauline?"

"Why should I?" Crowley smirked. "Is she a soft spot of yours?"

Halt gritted his teeth. His fists were trembling where they clutched Crowley's collar, and his dark eyes burned with rage.

"I'm still going to ask her out," Crowley taunted, because the comments about letting the poison and Ceder's henchmen kill him had cut deep and he wanted to hurt his (ex) friend in return. "I wouldn't hand Pauline over to someone like you."

Before he knew what had happened, he was bowled over backwards. He found himself sitting on the ground, his face stinging, his eye half closed and a furious Halt with a raised and clenched fist above him. Crowley touched swollen eye. He gaped at Halt, who had turned and was striding away.

Crowley scrabbled to his feet. "Don't hit me then walk away, you-you-!" A suitably nasty word didn't come to mind, so instead he leapt on Halt's back, sending them both crashing to the ground. Halt heaved and bucked, and Crowley let go so that when the other turned around, he was free to slam a fist into Halt's stomach. Halt retaliated instantly, kicking at Crowley's legs and pummelling him with fists. Crowley seized the offending wrists, twisting them, and rammed his head into Halt's noise.

It was a fight any ranger, or any knight for that matter, would have been deeply ashamed of. There were low blows, mostly from Crowley's side because he knew Halt's thigh had not fully healed and still caused substantial pain when kicked. No honour or grace existed in this battle. They had no space for clever moves, they just rolled over and over, trying to cause the other as much pain as they could without drawing weapons.

"I s'pose now you're going to say," Halt began, spitting out blood as he spoke and never ceasing to give blows that turned Crowley's skin black and blue. "If I beat you in a fight, you won't ask Pauline out."

"As if you could!" Crowley snapped. Then they were pulled apart, each held by two of the soldiers, who were looking most apologetic at interfering with the rangers whom they admired.

Pritchard made a show of studying his nails. "Who're you?" he asked. "You're not the apprentices I trained. Halt and Crowley were brave lads that grew into fine young men, certainly not the type to beat their comrades to a pulp."

Crowley studied his feet, crestfallen. Halt struggled against the soldiers holding him and it took a minute for him to relax and let his shoulders sag in defeat.

"Sorry Pritchard," Crowley muttered and Halt grumbled something much the same.

"You're still very much boys." Pritchard folded his arms, scrutionising them. "Well? Aren't you going to apologise to the soldiers you've woken in the middle of the night?"

"Sorry, everyone," Crowley said, more dismayed with every passing second. Halt grunted, his form of apology. Pritchard glowered at him until his shoulders slumped and he too said, "sorry, everyone."

"Now to each other," Pritchard demanded.

They clamped their mouths shut and found their feet to be thoroughly fascinating. Crowley squirmed. Halt's fists clenched at his sides. It soon became apparent they would not reconcile.

Pritchard rubbed the bridge of his nose, a deep sigh escaping him. He could only wonder how long it would take for them to realise that a ranger's life was a dangerous one, that if anything was to happen to one of them, the other would be devastated, more so if they parted on bad terms.

"Back to bed," Pritchard waved his hands in defeat: he couldn't force them to get along. "Halt, you're on watch."

The sandy haired ranger opened his mouth to say something. Pritchard didn't know what but he doubted it was something he'd approve of so he snapped, "not a word! Bed!"

Ah, deja vu. It sure brought him back to the days of bossing around young apprentices. Crowley sulked off to his tent. Halt sulked off to his vantage point. The soldiers cringed under the oldest ranger's glower, even though it was not directed at them, and slipped to their own tents.

Pritchard himself lay awake for some time, listening to see if his apprentices (how could he think of them as fully fledged rangers while this behaviour was going on?) were going to start another fight.

….

The party of immaculate soldiers marched into Gorlan the next morning. Their coat of arms was displayed proudly on their shields, and their chainmail glittered in the light. Helmits swooped over the face's, like the noble beaks of eagles. A figure swathed in ranger greens led the party, his shaggy horse distinctive to his proffession. They were an official lot, and the ordinary townspeople whispered amongst themselves as they passed. Some of the young women giggled on the streets, smoothing out their skirts and pointing at the ones they found most attractive. They nudged their single friends and when the soldiers looked at them, they ducked away in a fit of embarrassed giggling.

None of them pointed at the other two members of the party, the two rangers that trailed behind, so silently and miserably that one might not have noticed them at all. On closer inspection, the one with the sandy hair had a black, swollen eye, and the other had a yellowy tinge to the corner of his lip where it had been torn. They were both battered, and neither one would look at the other.

The spiral topped castle came into view. Pritchard took a deep breath. The black stone was beautiful, he thought, the same way the ocean was beautiful and a wolf was beautiful. Stunning to the eye, but each held their own malevolent secrets.

They filed up the staircases, nodding to the passing staff and nobles, smiling as the staff bowed to them and gritting their teeth as the nobles turned up their noses. One particular man, who reminded Pritchard of a peacock, sniffed disdainfully at the sight of rangers and went so far as to mutter, "what are peasants like you doing in a castle ?"

Halt opened his mouth to say something that wasn't complimentary, and would probably be accompanied with a threat- the moat was lovely this time of day after all- and was hushed by a firm hand on his shoulder. Pritchard had developed a knack for seeing the temper of an apprentice (or former apprentice as was this case) stirring. He shoved the young man on.

"Don't say anything," he muttered under his breath. "Or you'll become more acquainted with the moat then you'd like."

Halt sniffed. At least he recognised that his mentor wasn't happy with him at the moment and decided not to press the issue.

They filed into the baron's anteroom. There was a desk near the door, and a range of wooden chairs that had plush, patterned cushions. Tapestries hung on the walls, the purple, greens and reds clashing atrociously. The torches were burning low. But there was no one around to fuel them.

"Huh," Pritchard said, glancing around the empty chamber.

"No one's here," the youngest soldier observed. Soldiers had a tendency to state the obvious.

"Quite," Pritchard agreed. He strode up to the heavy oak door and pushed. It was locked. He rapped on it, calling out, "Baron Ceder? Chamberlain?" A pause. "Anyone?"

"No one's home," Crowley said. He also had a tendency to state the obvious.

"Wonder what's happened," Pritchard mused.

"Maybe he heard we were coming to arrest him?" Halt suggested. "We _did_ come strutting up the stairs with an armed brigade."

Crowley shot a glare at him. "It's not like you said anything at the time," he snapped. "So don't act all high and mighty now."

Pritchard quickly interceded. "You're right, of course. He had plenty of time to be warned. But that works for us as well."

Halt saw the reasoning straight away. "Yes," he agreed. "Now we can tell people he left because he was guilty and knew he'd be arrested."

"You know it," Pritchard smiled.

"So what's our next move?" Crowley asked. "Shall we ask around and find out where he's gone?"

Pritchard considered it. "Not yet," he decided after a pause. "We'll wait here for a short while in case someone comes by who can explain his absence. It's unlikely that everyone in authority here is a traitor, someone will be around who'll come to see the barom. Fredrick," he gestured to one of the knights, "just wait outside the door and ask anyone who comes by."

"Anyone?" Fredrick repeated. "Even a maid or..?"

"Just use your common sense," Pritchard said. "Don't alarm the servents. Anyone who looks important."

Fredrick processed this, then clopped outside the door. The ranger sank down on one of the plush couches. He told the other soldiers to make themselves comfortable, but when Halt and Crowley made a move, he chided them.

"Not you two," he clipped. "There's not enough room." To prove his point, he sprawled out, propping his legs up on his couch so that there was indeed no more room for the younger rangers to sit.

"Pritchard, that's not fair!" Crowley whined.

"What's not fair is me being stuck on a mission with you two grumble-guts," Pritchard countered. "You can brood while you stand. If you must, you can stand on opposite sides of the room."

Now that he'd said that, they couldn't, of course, because they could recognise the childishness of such a gesture when it came from his mouth. They stood awkwardly, not quite looking at each other and not quite meeting Pritchard's eyes either.

"I might always be persuaded to let you have some room," Pritchard added, "if say, you apologised to each other."

Silence.

Halt looked expectantly at Crowley. Crowley looked expectantly at Halt. They both waited for the other to apologise. It became apparent that neither was going to.

A frown blossomed on Halt's face. "You can't surely be waiting for _my _apology," he said.

"And why not?" Crowley challenged.

Halt snorted. "I've got nothing to be sorry for!"

"Well, I'm not sorry either!"

"You should be."

"Why's that then?"

"Because of you and Pauline-"

"-I'm allowed to like Pauline. She's not yours. _You_ won't even confess to having feelings for her."

Halt growled. "I never said I didn't like her."

"You never directly said you did, either," Crowley countered.

"Maybe I just trusted the person whose life I saved- need I remind you about that- to keep his hands to himself."

"Oh, will you stop going on about 'saving me'?" Their voices were growing louder.

"Well I did, didn't I?"

"Yeah, and I bet you regret it," Crowley spat with a touch of venom. They moved closer to each other, fists balling, eyes locked.

"I do!" Halt agreed. "We'd all be better off without an empty-headed, pathetic excuse for a ranger like you."

"We'd be happier if you had just stayed in Hibernia and-"

Pritchard stood up. His hand dropped to the hilt of his knife. "If I hear one more word out of either of you, I swear to god I'll cut your tongues out."An uneasy quietness collapsed on them. "This is not how grown rangers behave," Pritchard pressed. "Halt, keep your temper in check. Crowley, stop winding him up."

They found that their toes were thoroughly fascinating. Crowley scratched his ear. Halt's fingers wound around the hem of his shirt.

A deep sigh escaped Pritchard. "Now, I'm not stupid. This is about that blond girl, the one who has a birthday coming up." He shook his head at them. Reckless young men. "Right. How about you take a break and cool off. Go buy her something for her birthday. That'll do it. And go seperate ways, I don't want you two together. When you're in the mood for business, come back here and we'll hunt down the baron."

"But what if he comes back?" Halt protested.

"Or what if someone comes who can tell us where he is?" Crowley added.

Pritchard folded his arms. He fixed them with a stern gaze. "Then I'll be here to deal with it. Believe it or not, I can achieve _some_ things without your supervision."

So with some reluctance, and much muttering under their breath, they trudged down the spiral staircase into the courtyard. A pattering rain had begun to fall, and it strengthened as time went by. Dirt turned to mud and sloshed around, small streams formed at the side of the path in the dug out gutters.

Crowley moped around the town. The raindrops cooled his furious steam, and his shoulders sagged in defeat. What was he doing, he wondered, arguing with his best friend? If only his tongue would slow down and give his brain a chance. But it never did, and he'd end up saying things he regretted.

He browsed through the jeweller, but that was far to expensive for a mere ranger, so he headed for the poorer parts of the street. There was a cart selling fresh produce and he bought a bunch of grapes to nibble on as he wandered.

His clothes were damp, and the chill wound into his bones, water seeping through the wool of his cloak. It was about time for him to return to Pritchard, he thought. Enough time had passed for the older ranger to be satisfied that he'd calmed down, while not being long enough that he'd missed out on any drama- hopefully.

He settled on a necklace that was of a reasonable price, with pink and yellow stained glass beads, and a charm shaped like a moon as the promonant piece. Crowley wasn't well educated on what women liked in jewellry, but he thought it was pretty enough and he liked the moon.

He fiddled with the beads as he rode back to the castle, twisting them around the string. Halt was so infuriating sometimes. He bristled to think of the things that had been said between them, things that were a far cry from the comfortable friendship they used to share.

Deep in his musings, he flicked the bead with a little to much force and the string snapped. The glass beads skittered between the cobblestones, Cropper hesitating in his stride as the glittering specks showered over his neck.

"To hell with it," Crowley muttered under his breath, frustrated. He urged Cropper onwards. Hunting in the rain to rethread the beads wasn't appealing at all. If he didn't have the time (or money) to buy her anything else before her birthday, he'd just have to make out that he'd been really busy.

The rain really was thick now. It was hard to believe how pleasant the weather had been that morning, although they had seen the clouds descending. As he neared the castle, he spotted Halt staring mournfully at a sopping notepad and quill that he'd tried to shelter under his cloak but the rain had seeped through the material.

A good idea, Crowley mused, because Pauline liked useful things like that, and he couldn't help being a little relieved that the gift was ruined. Halt hadn't ridden Abelard- he'd decided to keep the horse dry in the stable. Crowley had considered the same thing but decided in the end that Cropper wasn't the type of horse to mind a little water.

Plus, now he had to bed Cropper down. Halt entered the castle right away, so it gave him an excuse not to walk with the other ranger and to follow up a few minutes later to find out exactly what was going on with Baron Ceder.


	7. A Gift

**Chapter 7**

**A Kiss**

Halt stood in the anteroom, fists bunched at his sides, a furrow between his brows. He moved a few paces, stopped, then rummaged around on the secretary's desk for any information. There were no clues of any manner. Frustrated, he gave the desk a kick and ran a hand through his dark hair.

This was how Crowley found him, when the taller ranger pushed open the door. Halt squinted at him and shrugged, his hands fluttering in a helpless gesture.

"No one's here," he muttered. "They've gone and left without us."

"Without us?" Crowley repeated, bewildered. Sure enough, the anteroom that had been full of soldiers and one annoyed ranger was deserted.

"Try to be quick-witted," Halt said acidly. "That's what I just said."

Crowley huffed. "You're the one who stated the obvious first." He sucked in a deep breath to steady himself, fighting back his volatile temper- it just came with being a redhead, as Pritchard always said.

He analysed the situation. "A messenger must have come by, or the chamberlain returned. Pritchard wanted to find out what was going on right away so he didn't bother to wait for us," Crowley summarised. He had to confess, a part of this was to prove his swift analytical abilities to the other ranger; he was quick-witted, whatever insults Halt tossed about.

"Yes," Halt agreed. "That would be the obvious scenario."

There was a tense pause. Neither of them were willing to take the first step to reconcile. Crowley cleared his throat. Halt thumbed the fletching of his arrows.

"Well, they must be around somewhere," Crowley said at last. Halt nodded. It was ridiculous to stand around like blithering morons, yet they refused to discuss and bounce ideas off each other.

Halt decided on his own that he wasn't going to wait to find out what was amiss. He shoved past the other ranger, ignoring the yelp of indignation. The baron's private quarters had to be higher, he figured, so he headed for one of the spiral staircases.

Of course, Ceder could have his private rooms up any of the towers. Halt had no way of knowing which one. The south-east tower was the closest, so it made sense to check there first. After all, for all his curiosity, there was no real urgency- Pritchard could deal with any issues that might arise.

He sensed that Crowley was behind him. A trickle of their old teamwork came back. They didn't need to verbally communicate to both know where they were heading and what they hoped to find there. Despite everything, they were old comrades and they'd had years of learning each other's quirks.

The castle was desolate. Empty. Of course it was busier in the kitchens, and the servents quarters, or even the waiting rooms for the prettier ladies, but out here in the halls, no one seemed to be about. Perhaps this was also helped by the rangers lack of noise. Not a heel rang on the staircase, and the silence swelled.

At the top of the tower, there was a heavy oak door with a brass knocker. The guard was a man of perhaps eighteen, with wide hazel eyes, a crooked nose, and full, almost girly lips. He sat with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him, munching on a sandwich. As Halt and Crowley emerged from the stairwell, he scrambled to his feet, choking on a mouthful of bread and cheese. A flush spread over his cheeks- evidently he was embarassed at being caught lazing about. He touched the hilt of his sword for good measure, but the movement was ruined by a slice of ham dropping from between his sandwich slices. The guard blushed redder and stooped to pick it up.

Halt had already made his analysis. A young guard, probably on one of his first posts and not expecting to encounter anyone- this wasn't Ceder's room. However people with rooms in the towers were usually important. The inhabitant could possibly give them a few answers, or at least directions to Ceder's private chambers.

"Who's room is this?" Crowley asked, coming to the same conclusion as his fellow ranger.

The guard cleared his throat uncertainly. "Lord Peterson and Lady Muriel's chambers sir." He hesitated. "What are you doing here, sir ranger?" He realised this sounded abrupt and hastily corrected himself, "I mean, Lord Peterson doesn't often get visitors to his private rooms."

Of course, the rangers didn't have to explain themselves to a mere guard. The guard knew this and the redness of his cheeks deepened as time ticked on. Crowley offered a polite smile. He fumbled at his collar and held out his silver oakleaf for proof of his identity. The guard took the hint; he nodded, stepped back and didn't question them any further.

Crowley rapped on the door. Halt was right behind him, listening. He heard a sigh, a grumble, and footsteps making their way over. The door creaked open and revealed Lord Peterson, an aged man who's lined face was creased in displeasure. He had only a wisp of hair on his scalp and chin, yet his eyebrows were ridiculously bushy. His eyes bugged out at them, as if they might pop from the socket if they widened any more.

"Hello," Crowley greeted. "Lord Peterson? I'm ranger Crowley, and this is ranger Halt."

Peterson peered at them. He nodded, curt. No wonder he didn't get visitors often. He didn't even pretend to be welcoming.

"We're here looking for Baron Ceder," Crowley continued. Halt watched the lord closely, scanning him for any sign that he knew what was amiss.

"Here?" Peterson repeated. His winkled hands fluttered about, thick gold rings flashing. "Here? Why are you looking for him here? The baron will be in his throne room, his study, his chambers. Usually his study to meet with ambassadors. You wait in the anteroom outside, the chamberlain takes you in when he's ready. Not here." He doubled over with a rattling cough. Crowley stepped forward in concern. The guard watched them, tensed as if he was about to ask the rangers to leave but didn't quite have the courage to do it. His sandwich dangled half eaten from his hand.

Peterson recovered, straightening up and brushing his velvit robes. "Useless guard," he snarled. "You are supposed to keep visitors out."

"Why's that?" Halt asked. When they looked at him uncomprehending, he elaborated. "Why don't you like visitors?"

Peterson's bulging eyes locked on his. "Visitors bring trouble. Trust me ranger, if you lived in Gorlan, you'd avoid trouble too."

"Is that because Ceder is a traitor?" Halt pressed. Crowley shot him a look- he'd been under the impression they were trying to be subtle about it.

"Traitor. Loyal. It makes no difference to me," Peterson said. "I stay out of it. If it's people who'd like to see Ceder as king you're after, you'd have to knock down all of Gorlan fief. There are too many to count. As I say, I stay out of it all." He coughed again and rubbed a weary hand over his eyes.

"Sirs," the guard interrupted quietly. "Perhaps you might take your leave? The lord is tired."

"Very well," Crowley said. "My lord, can you tell us where the baron's private chambers are?"

Peterson considered for a moment. His shoulds lifted slightly in a shrug. "North-west tower," he said. "Right at the top."

"Thank you," Crowley nodded. He bowed and nudged his companion until Halt offered a stiff bow as well. They headed back down the staircase, and he could have sworn he heard the guard start munching on the sandwich again.

They made a wordless agreement to head for the North-west tower and took the stairs two at a time. Both young rangers were athletic. They covered the ground swiftly, impatient to get answers. Halt wasn't fond of questions, and questions that he didn't know the answer to were the worst kind.

At the bottom of the stairwell, a hall cut across. Branched off from this hall was a corridor that headed to the north, then split into two different corridors lined with doors. It was here that Halt registered the thud of footsteps. Instantly, he analysed them. Four men, all heavy, with steel toed boots and a quick gait: probably warriors and they sounded to be in a hurry. Halt glanced at Crowley. The sandy haired ranger paused, listened for a moment, then strode to where the halls intercepted. Halt trailed behind him, an uneasiness knawing at his belly.

"Hey!" Crowley greeted, one arm raised. "You're battlemaster Wallace, aren't you?" Sure enough, one of the men was vagually familiar and now that it had been said, Halt placed who it was a big, burly man, with a thick jaw, a curly beard and a mass of freckles over his nose. He froze like a boy caught stealing.

"That's right," he said after a pause. His three companions were stiff-backed. One of them mustered the courage to approach Crowley.

"You're one of them rangers," the knight said. Wallace cast a warning look his way.

"Bruce," he cautioned. Bruce shifted, eyes flicking from side to side.

"That's right," Crowley nodded. "Ranger Crowley. We've been searching for Baron Ceder..?" He left the question open, expectantly waiting for a response whether it was one of a clueless man or someone who knew what oddities were happening at Gorlan.

He got his response, though it was not what he expected. In a split second, Bruce drew his sword and whipped it through the air. With the reflexes of an alley cat, Crowley leapt back and the sword cleaved the air where his neck had been.

Halt flicked his knives into his hands. His bow was next to useless in the confines and close quarters of the castle. Two of the warriors were upon him. He blocked their cuts, falling into the rythym of a battle where there was no time to think about anything except what the next move would be.

The knights were all skilled swordsmen. Halt could hold his own against them but he didn't get a chance to do any serious damage. He grazed a shallow cut across the ribs of one. That same man kicked out to try and put some space between them. The heavy boot whacked into Halt's thigh. His thigh that was still healing and still caused excrutiating pain when it came into contact with the boot. Halt's vision blurred and he stumbled for just a second.

A second made all the difference in a fight. It gave the battlemaster an opportunity to slam the flat of his sword into Halt's head. The ranger crumpled to the ground.

"Halt!" Crowley shouted, alarmed. Wallace had already pressed the tip of his sword to the unconscious ranger's neck, the cold steel against the pulse.

"Don't you move," the battlemaster snapped. "Else I'll kill him."

Crowley froze. Slowly, hesitantly, he lowered his arms. He let his knives clatter to the ground. Bruce stooped and gathered them up. Halt lay still, transformed from a spirited young man to a pitiful heap in barely any time at all.

"And the bow," Wallace ordered. Crowley huffed, but he tossed his longbow to the ground and the quiver of arrows with it. Bruce collected these too.

"Why are you doing this?" Crowley asked, spreading his hands in a gesture of appeal and puzzlement. "What do you stand to gain?"

He was ignored. "Cameron," Wallace said, angling his thumb towards Halt's unconscious body. The youngest knight, must've been in his twenties with thin, angular features, hefted Halt over his shoulder roughly.

"Come along peacefully," Wallace said to Crowley. It didn't seem that he had much choice. Bruce slipped behind him and Crowley was tempted to turn around and tell him that it wouldn't make a difference, that if he wanted to slip away he could. He didn't, because it didn't really matter. He couldn't leave or they'd kill Halt.

Wallace led them through the castle, avoiding other people. At one stage, when a servant girl clopped along the halls, he made them duck and hide behind the corner. By the time they got to the lower floors, he was huffing and wheezing from anxiety. Here, it was busier than on the higher levels. This was where the more active members of the fief resided, the craftmasters and the nobles that weren't as high in who were wallowing in money tended to spend a lot of time indoors with their plush sofas and curtains and silks, and this was amplified in Gorlan.

"No good," Wallace muttered. "We'll never get out of here without anyone seeing us."

"Does it matter?" the third knight inquired in a whisper. "No one's going to wonder why we're here."

Wallace cast a withering glare his way. "That's right, Patrick. They won't wonder at all why we have an unconscious ranger with us. Besides, we don't know how many people are in on it." This last sentence spiked Crowley's curiosity. In on what, exactly?

Patrick subsided, grumbling to himself. They slipped back up the stairwell. Crowley thought it was a stupid place to hang around- anyone coming up the stairs would spot them- but he wasn't about to help these knights.

"Can't we just kill them now?" The one with the narrow face said. Crowley struggled to remember his name for a moment. Cameron, that was it. And Bruce was the one that had attacked Crowley. He committed the names and faces to memory, to make sure he made them pay later.

"No," Wallace snapped. "Don't be impatient."

"but battlemaster, they poisoned Ceder!" Cameron protested. Crowley twitched and frowned to himself.

"So what's to stop the third ranger, the tall one, from killing us too?" Wallace hissed. "These two. We have hostages, we have momentum."

"What's this about poisoning Ceder?" Crowley queried. The knights glowered at him.

"Don't pretend innocence, ranger," Wallace snapped. "It's just like your kind to meddle and cause trouble. I'm not stupid. The baron's been poisoned and then your friend comes up to his rooms with the chamberlain, staring at the dead body and accusing it of being a traitor- I was there, I saw it and heard it!"

"Ceder's been poisoned," Crowley repeated. "He's been killed. So you think we did it?"

Wallace snorted. "Payback, isn't it ranger? For what happened to you last time you were here."

"Ah. You remember that, do you?" Crowley hummed to himself. On the outside, he was calm and collected. Inside, he whirled, peicing together bits and pieces, linking things together. The chamberlain showed up at the anteroom alarmed, he showed Pritchard up to the baron's rooms (if he did so willingly or if he was bullied into it was a moot point), Wallace was there already- or did Wallace join later? Why would Wallace be there? Unless Wallace was meeting with the baron to discuss something. He discovered the baron's dead body. He must have contacted a healer and found out he was poisoned. Pritchard came up and accused Ceder of being a traitor. Then what? Pritchard couldn't have been there for long, which implied that Wallace had gone straight to find his three friends.

They'd attacked the rangers because they thought they were responsible for killing Ceder. They were most likely close to Ceder, either personally or in work, which was expected of a battlemaster but not so much the other three. When Wallace said 'in on it' he was referring to the people involved in the poisoning and who knew Ceder was a traitor, Crowley supposed. So Wallace had been alarmed when Pritchard declared Ceder a traitor, he thought Pritchard had poisoned Ceder probably because of him being a traitor or what had happened to Crowley, he had run to find his friends, he didn't dare act suspiciously in front of the people who were 'in on it' and he was afraid Pritchard would try to kill him. It all added up to Wallace and the other three being traitors as well. Gorlan was full of them, it seemed.

"Not so much payback I would say," Crowley murmured, testing his theory, "as eliminating the less loyal of the King's subjects."

Wallace visibly flinched. His eyes were wide and frightened. Betrayal was all well and good until someone caught you. That was when the regret came. He let out a breath.

"Of course, you're right to be worried." Crowley summoned his most wolf like grin. If he was honest, he had copied it off Halt. "The four of you are next on our list."

Bruce snarled. "Let's kill 'em now!"

"No!" Wallace snapped. "They can't hurt us. If he makes a move, we'll kill this one."

"_I_ can't," Crowley agreed. He wasn't sure what to do, but he was rapidly thinking of and dismissing ideas. "If anyone comes up that stairwell however..."

Wallace scowled. Patrick coughed lightly. "He's right," he pointed out.

"He's trying to trick us," Wallace argued.

"But he's right," Patrick said again. Wallace thrust his hands into the air.

"Fine," he said. "We need to find somewhere discreet. Still, my quarters are on the floor below and we'll never get to them without someone seeing us with the rangers."

"Let them see," Bruce growled.

"No no no," Wallace frowned. He sighed. "Forget it. This'll just get us caught. Kill them."

Crowley stiffened. His fists bunched at his sides. Bruce paced towards him and he backed up. He didn't run; he kept an eye on Cameron with Halt.

"Make it look like an accident," Wallace instructed. "That one," he pointed to Halt, "looks like the kind to have a tragic fall out the window."

Some criminals grinned and jibed when they killed, savouring every moment. Cameron wasn't one of these. He got the job done quickly because it had to be done. He nodded and strode through the halls, Halt draped over his shoulder like a rucksack. Crowley cursed as he disappeared from sight.

He would have raced after them if he didn't have three burly men bearing down on him. They drew their swords. Crowley summed up the situation. What chance did he have against three grown men when he was unarmed? He jogged backwards to the staircase. It was closer than he remembered and his foot caught he empty air. His arms windmilled, a gruesome image of tumbling down that long, narrow staircase flashing through his mind, how his limbs would be skewed at the end. He clutched at the railing and managed to regain his footing. The moment gave Patrick the chance to grab Crowley's arm, which was helpful enough to stop him from falling, but he didn't let go and the ranger couldn't run as Wallace thrust his sword at him.

…...

Cameron hated to kill in cold blood. That wasn't to say he couldn't do it. However, he found it most distasteful and certainly less honourable than a good duel. Nonetheless, he was glad the ranger wasn't awake to fight him and make his job difficult. Cameron was suspectable to all the superstition about rangers. He was surprised to notice, as the hood had fallen back from the ranger's head, that it was a man no older than himself clad in mysterious greens. He couldn't decide if that made his job easier or harder.

Still, it had to be done. Cameron might have been a traitor to the throne, but he had the utmost loyalty to the battlemaster. After all, the king had not given him a purpose or a job. The king had not paid for his fathers medical care. The king had not introduced him to the love of his life. The battlemaster had, all these things and more. So when battlemaster Wallace told Cameron to kill the ranger, Cameron would do it.

There was a large window, with a ledge that the ladies liked to sit on sometimes. It was open and curtainless. Cameron sighed to himself. He could see right out to his parents' farm. As far as death went, this wasn't such a bad way to go. Plus, the ranger was unconscious. He wouldn't feel a thing. How anyone would believe it was possible to have the absentmindedness to topple off the ledge he didn't know. He thought he, Bruce, Patrick and the battlemaster were in big trouble. Cameron steadied himself with a deep breath.

He gripped the ranger's waist and lifted him off his shoulder, dumping him on the ledge. Except the ranger didn't collapse like a sack of potatos. Rather, he sat on the ledge, back upright, head held high and his dark eyes were open. Cameron gaped. Startled, he didn't have time to react before a knee was slammed into his stomach. His eyes blurred with tears and he gasped. The ranger seized his shoulders, hopped off the ledge and hurled him out the window.

Halt heard the screams of Cameron, and of several people down below. He tugged the hood of his cloak over his head. He knew the way back to where Crowley was; he'd paid close attention while he'd pretended to still be unconcious. In truth, Halt had woken in time to hear Wallace's suspicions and learnt the same as Crowley.

He hurried through the halls. Bruce was the first of them that he noticed, although Halt wasn't clear on the name. In battle, one had to make split second decisions. Halt's first reaction as he saw Bruce was holding their bows and saxe knives was to capture Bruce in a choke hold from behind. The man let out a strangled gasp, tried and failed to dislodge the young ranger. Now Halt noticed Wallace paused with his sword extended at the stairwell, and Patrick holding Crowley. He was about to release Bruce and help out, when Crowley took matters into his own hands, kicking Patrick's legs from under him.

As Patrick tumbled, he released the hand. Crowley grabbed his collar and performed a similar manouvre to what Halt had to Cameron, hurling Patrick down the stairs. The knight howled, and below there was a scream.

This all happened in seconds. Wallace recovered from his hesitation. He flashed his sword in a series of blinding strokes. Crowley could only dodge and retreat. Bruce slumped in Halt's arms. He dropped the man, ripped his bow from a limp hand, wiggled out an arrow from his quiver over Bruce's shoulder and shot Wallace.

The arrow peirced his neck and he fell forward, on top of Crowley. The sandy haired ranger yelped and knocked the sword out the way. The weight of Wallace sent them both sliding down the stairs, bruising Crowley's back, until he managed to twist sideways and brace with his left leg. He shoved Wallace off, panting. At the base of the stairs, a frightened crowd was starting to gather. He heard a soldier shout Patrick's name and Wallace's. Footsteps thumped up the stairs.

Halt stepped down the stairs. Crowley looked up at him, a relieved grin forming on his face. He gathered his legs under him, annoyed that they shook a little. Halt reached out a hand. He didn't say anything, yet there seemed to be soundless words in those dark eyes.

Crowley took the offered hand. He was tugged to his feet. He groaned and rubbed his back. There were several painful spots where the edge of the stairs had hit it- it would be stiff and painful in the morning.

"Let's go," Halt murmured. "Else we'll have to explain what happened here." He nodded towards the footsteps getting louder. They jogged up the stairs, retrieved their weapons from Bruce, gave him a kick for good measure and sauntered to the north-west tower.

"Halt?" Crowley said after a while. "Thanks for saving me again."

Halt waved a careless hand, dismissing the matter.

"I mean it," Crowley continued. "And...I'm sorry about all those things I said."

A snort and a shrug. "You're such a sap," Halt muttered. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I guess I'm sorry too. I didn't mean anything I said. Or most of it, at least. You _are_ an empty-headed, pathetic excuse for a ranger."

Crowley grinned. He linked his hands behind his head. Well, there was nothing like a bit of shared danger to recover a friendship. For now, at least. Pauline still hovered between them. He had a chord of doubt in him now and he couldn't decide if he should ask her out or not.

The guards outside Ceder's rooms were much older and more proffessional than the sandwich eaiting bloke. Pritchard's soldiers were also hanging about, except for the most senior of them. Halt and Crowley showed the guards their oakleaves and when the other soldiers confirmed they had travelled with them, they were allowed in.

Pritchard sat in an armchair, with one leg crossed over the other, leaning forward and evidently deep in thought. He glanced up as the younger rangers entered.

"What took you so long?" he demanded. "I'd have thought you'd have found me with ease."

Halt and Crowley exchanged a glance. "Easy enough," Halt said, the ghost of a smile passing over his lips. Pritchard studied them, curious. He must have picked up on the less hostile air between them.

The most senior of the soldiers was sitting in an adjacent armchair. Another man was shaking his head- he was portly, dressed in a robe and Halt assumed he was the chamberlain. As for Ceder, there was an open door leading into his bedroom. Peeking through it, Halt could see the end of the bed and the healer crouched over it.

"Is it true that Ceder was poisoned?" Crowley asked.

Pritchard was astonished. "You've heard that already? It's a possibility but the healer thinks it's more likely that it was a simple heart failure."

"I see," Halt mused. "The battlemaster seemed to think we poisoned him."

"Did he?" Pritchard had a mixed look of bewilderment, shock and amusement. "Yes, poor Wallace was quite upset when the healer mentioned that possibility even though she was adamant that it was unlikely and that she only brought it up to examine every possible angle. He ran straight out the door."

"He said you accused Ceder of being a traitor," Crowley added. The chamberlain let out a low moan.

"Well yes," Pritchard said. "Our friend mister chamberlain over here was most distraught. I thought I'd ease his burden a little, tell him why this could be a good thing. Have you been talking to battlemster Wallace?"

"In a manner of speaking," Halt said ruefully. "Gorlan's going to need a new battlemaster though, I'm afraid."

Pritchard raised an eyebrow. He let the matter drop, though they both knew he'd be pressing them for every detail later. "It seems Gorlan is going to get a fresh start. Ceder's son will hopefully be loyal to the throne."

"Or he might follow in his fathers footsteps," Halt pointed out.

"We'll deal with that when the time comes," Pritchard said. "For now, the young man will be grieving for his father. We've done our duty here; our evidence is irrelevent. Ceder is no longer baron. It's time for us to go home."

…...

The little blue bottle was empty now. He placed it in his bedside cabinet. It was a pretty bottle. He'd have to dispose of it when he could.

A soft laugh bubbled from his lips. He ran the pads of his fingers over his hollow cheekbones, his thin nose, his arched eyebrows; touching the pattern of his features. This was his face. The face of a baron's son. And now, the face of a baron.

He laughed again. Baron Morgarath of Gorlan. He liked that. King Morgarath of Araluen. He liked that more. Yes, he liked that an awful lot. Those rangers wouldn't ruin his plans the way they had ruined his fathers. He just had to bide his time until the old king died. He'd strike before prince Duncan could take the throne and _Araluen would be his!_

…...

"Happy birthday Pauline!" Everyone assembled cried. They were at the ranger's cabin, after they'd managed to convince Halt that no one would break anything. Red and blue ribbons were strung around the room, and confetti littered the clearing outside. A long table had been set up with all manner of food- thinly cut potatos, tarts, pies, sausages, chicken wings, and of course a chocolate cake with cream between the layers and a single candle on top. All of this extravagance had been paid for and set up by Sandra, a young noble and one of Pauline's closest friends.

The massive crowd sung happy birthday as Pauline blew out the candle. She was glowing with the moment, but when the band started strumming on their guitars and the chatter started up, she turned to Sandra.

"I don't know half of these people," she whispered.

Sandra winked at her. "I took the liberty of inviting a few friends of mine."

"Is any of Redmont not here? I did promise Halt I'd only invite ten people." Pauline said. Sandra giggled and didn't answer.

Pritchard had stayed for the celebration. He liked a party, even if he didn't know Pauline well. The backstabbing ranger even gave her a small bottle of perfume he'd picked up from Gorlan. Crowley and Halt had shifted beside him, eyes on the ground and hands empty. She'd fingered the glass bottle and said she couldn't accept it from someone she didn't know, but Pritchard said cheerily, "I couldn't show up to a party without a gift for the birthday girl," which made the younger rangers shrink even more, as he had known it would.

Now he'd found a group to talk to and was telling them a highly exaggerated tale about their adventure in Gorlan. Not much of it was true. Crowley and Halt stayed away from the alchohol and moped about. Halt slumped on his veranda, observing the party and reflecting that this was far more than the ten people Pauline had assured him there would be.

He was a touch anxious wondering if Crowley was going to go through with asking her out, and what she would say. Halt sighed to himself, drumming his fingers on his longbow. Even now, he refused to go weaponless. He noticed the sandy haired ranger approaching Pauline, saw him cough to get her attention and he stiffened, craning forward.

Halt could lip read. It was one of those skills he'd picked up during his training as a ranger. He saw Pauline say 'hello Crowley,' and the sandy haired man wish her a happy brithday. She smiled and said thank you. A sinking feeling formed in Halt's gut as Crowley said, "there's something I think you should know."

"What is it?" Pauline asked, concerned.

So Crowley kissed her.


	8. An Ending

**Chapter 8**

**An Ending**

Through a haze of red, Halt watched as Crowley kissed her forcefully. Pauline stood there, neither returning the kiss nor pulling away. Before he knew what he was doing, Halt was striding over to them. He shoved aside the crowd that got in his way without any attention on anything aside from that kiss.

Crowley pulled back, searching her face. Aside from her slightly flushed cheeks, there was nothing to give away her thoughts. She opened her mouth to say something. He smiled and shook his head. He didn't need to hear it.

Halt saw this, but he didn't care for what it meant. He was fuming. In fact, later when he had the cool head of hindsight, he'd be surprised at how that one kiss had affected him. With every bit of spite and violence ebbing from his heart, he drew back his fist, took pleasure in the surprised look in hazel eyes, and smashed his knuckles into the cartilage of Crowley's nose.

The skin over his knuckles was grazed, and he shook his fist. Crowley's face was no doubt worse; he couldn't see because the sandy haired ranger was doubled over in pain, hands covering his nose. Around them, girls screamed and clutched at each other, while the slightly drunk men cheered for a fight.

Halt let his hands drop to his sides. A sudden wave of nausea passed over him, aware that the crowd was focused on him. He noted Pauline's stiff, furious posture, and Pritchard who stood a hand taller than the majority of the crowd with his arms folded over his chest. He felt guilty, though he was not sure if it was because of the disapproving stares or because he'd hurt Crowley, for he also had a dark satisfaction.

The sandy haired ranger straightened up. He removed his hands from his face and the crowd gave an audible, simultaneous gasp. Crowley's nose was a mess of gristle and blood, evidently broken, streams of red trickling into his mouth. He spat, drops of blood and spittle dotting the ground. With a glare, he wiped his chin.

Halt swallowed. Just as things had been getting better between them too- and suddenly he was tired of the fighting. He wanted them to be best friends again, like back in the old days. Funny how the 'old days' were only a year or so back. He let his bloodied fist hang pitifully by his side as Crowley approached him.

"Hold on a minute," Pauline clipped, her voice sparking with indignant anger. She reached for Crowley but was shaken off. Some girl in the crowd, Halt didn't take notice of who, yelled for Crowley to keep his cool and walk away. They were sure he would get in a brawl.

But Halt saw what they hadn't. The gleam in Crowley's eyes, calculating, not at all the look of someone who had lost their temper. Crowley marched right up to him and thrust his face close, so that Halt could smell the tang of blood and so only Halt heard what he whispered.

"One more chance to win the girl," Crowley said. "Neither of us got her a good present, we tied the race, the fight was inconclusive, the drinking ended extrememly bady. So one more chance and I'll give up on her."

Halt eyed him warily. What did Crowley stand to gain from these encounters? He couldn't help wondering. Nonetheless, he let the other ranger continue.

"The one who can hit the most bullseyes wins Pauline," Crowley challenged. "You and me. Three arrows each." He backed up. Their eyes met, scrutionising each other, trying to figure the other out.

Pauline rested a hand on Crowley's shoulder. "What did you say?" she asked suspiciously for she hadn't made out the whispers. "You aren't threatening each other are you?"

Halt knawed at the inside of his cheek. "Fine," he catipulted, agreeing to the competition. He never turned down a chance at besting another ranger, after all.

"Fine what?" Pauline asked, a strain in her voice. She only became more agitated when Crowley threw his arms in the air and cried, "we're going to settle this the sporting way- with an archery competition!"

"What?" Pauline frowned, dumbfounded, completely thrown off her game from first the kiss, then the punch; now out of the blue they were declaring an archery shoot-off? Rangers. Nothing but trouble.

The crowd seized the non-bloody but exciting way out of the confrontation. They cheered and filed to the clearing behind the cabin, except for Pritchard who glowered at his reckless young men. He huffed to himself and went to get another drink on his way to the clearing. Pauline ran a puzzled hand through her hair, shaking her head. She trailed after them and found herself walking beside the old ranger, glancing up at him for tall as she was, he was taller. Pritchard cleared his throat and smiled at her.

"Happy birthday," he said with a sheepish grin. "Don't let those two ruin it for you." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the rangers.

"Thank you," Pauline said politely with a cool smile, the one she always adapted for people she didn't know well.

Up the front, leading the party, Halt and Crowley walked with a stiff gait. They eyeballed each other like racing horses. Halt stuffed his hands into his pockets and tried to look casual, uncaring. Crowley yawned disdainfully.

"Got targets?" Crowley asked. They stopped in the clearing and the crowd gathered around them, with the two young rangers in the centre of the circle.

"Yeah," Halt muttered. "In the stable." The previous ranger of Redmont had trained an apprentice, and he always kept his hand-painted targets for archery practise. When Halt had taken over, the elderly ranger had insisted he keep them just in case he ever 'had boys of his own'. Halt doubted that would ever happen- he couldn't imagine himself as an old tutor. Nonetheless, he'd accepted the targets and they'd remained in the stable gathering dust until now.

"Go get 'em then," Crowley said.

"Why don't you?"

They glowered at each other. Neither wanted to back down. Pauline rolled her eyes and threw up her hands.

"Right, I'll get your targets for you then," she huffed. Under her breath, so that only Prtichard overheard her, she muttered, "the things I put up with."

"Oh, you don't have to." Crowley reached out a hand to stop her. But she wouldn't let him near her and she strode to the stables, britsling. He visibly deflated, his fingers curling. He let his hand drop to his side.

He cast a guilty look at Halt, who shrugged uncomfortably. They flexed their bowstrings while they waited for her return, ignoring the playful catcalls of the crowd. Crowley jogged up and down on the spot, warming his muscles and even did some stretches. Halt sniffed. It was unecassary; he'd lost count of the times when he'd had to go from sitting still for hours to split second shooting without any warmups. It was a part of being a ranger. He for one wasn't going to amuse the crowd, he crossed his arms and waited patiently.

Pauline returned with a target. Pritchard intercepted and took it off her with a gallant bow. He said, "allow me, my lady," in his most charming manners. She wasn't the kind of girl to stutter and blush over that. Rather, she raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

Although he disapproved of the whole affair, he took the target to a tree and tied it up on the trunk, if only to get a break from the crowd and the negative vibes emitting from the boys. He knew it wouldn't solve anything. It was an easy shot for a ranger; neither of them would miss the bullseye even once. But at least it didn't involved physical damage to either of them and they'd leave in working order, so he decided they could let off some steam this way.

He strolled back to the impatient crowd. Unfortunately for him, Crowley took his co-operation as approval and asked if he could judge the competition. Pritchard adopted a long-suffering look- one that Halt would later copy for the benefit of his own apprentices.

"Please?" Crowley asked. "I promise this'll be the last one."

Pritchard looked down at him. "There won't be any more of these ridiculous competitions after this?" he asked to clarify.

"Not a single one," Crowley nodded.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Very well," he resigned himself. "Halt, you can shoot one arrow first. Stand with your toes touching this line." He stooped and drew a line in the soil with the tip of his bow. "I'll stand over there to get a clearer view of who's arrow is closest to the mark."

"Thanks Pritchard," Crowley said. Halt grunted. The crowd yelled their approval and someone said, "what a treat! I've never seen a ranger shoot this close up before, let alone a ranger competing against another ranger." He slurred his words, a half empty bottle of brandy in his hand.

Prtichard sighed to himself and moved to stand near the target. He knew his former apprentices wouldn't hit him; he had the utmost faith in their ability to control where they put their arrows. If they were going to do this and put an end to the fighting, he was going to make sure they did it right, else they'd complain of cheating later. He yelled, "when I raise my hand you can shoot. I'll point to the winner of each volley. Best out of three wins."

They waved acknowledgement. He waited a amoment, then raised his hand and gestured to Halt.

Halt had no doubt that he could hit the bullseye. And he didn't surprise anyone when he stepped up to the line, drew back, released and stepped back as the arrow thunked dead in the centre of the target. They cheered and clapped and nodded to each other.

Pritchard let the suspense build then he waved for Crowley to shoot.

It gave some people a sense of deja vu as Crowley shot without a hint of nervousness or uncertainty. And again, it hit the centre of the target. So they each had a second shot. The crowd registered that they might not get a result at all, which defeated the excitement of the event.

Everyone leaned forward as Pritchard inspected the target. It seemed to take an abnormally long time. Halt shifted impatiently, and Crowley had a twitch in one eye. At last Pritchard moved back. He made an exaggerrated shrugging gesture.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Crowley complained.

Halt chewed the inside of his cheek. "I suppose it means it's too close to tell." Funny how his frustration and anger was leaking away with archery to distract him. He was still upset over the kiss, but he couldn't quite bring himself to look at Crowley's injured nose and the red trails leading to his lips. It must hurt. Even though rangers were never coddled, someone was going to have to tell him to go to the infirmary because it was probably broken- like Halt, Crowley always avoided the infirmary whenever possible.

Pritchard pulled out the arrows. He moved back to a safe vantage point, although he reflected that anywhere even a centimetre from the bullseye was safe, and raised a hand. "Go again Halt!" he yelled.

So Halt shot again and of course it was a bullseye. Then Crowley had his turn and, no surprises, another bullseye. Pritchard made a shrugging gesture.

"He still can't tell," someone in the crowd complained- a young man, probably one of Sandra's friends because Halt didn't recognise him.

"This is no good," someone else agreed. "I'm going back to get a drink."

"You do that," Halt muttered, always glad to lose the crowd. Disappointingly, the majority remained.

"Last try!" Pritchard called. "And remember, you promised this was your last scuffle."

Crowley glanced at his friend sidealong. He offered a small grin. "Last fight, winner take all?"

"I don't think the winner'll be taking anything," Halt said, noting Pauline who was seething at the back of the crowd. No doubt they'd both get a talking to later.

"Quite," Crowley agreed, stiffling a laugh. "Alrighty then. Your shot." He dabbed at his lip, clearing some of the blood, as Halt took his stance.

Halt drew back smoothly and released the arrow. It sailed through the air. With a solid smack, it embedded itself in the centre of the target. Halt lowered his bow and arched his brows, the only sign that he was pleased with his performance. He couldn't help glancing at Pauline to see if she was impressed. She remained stubbornly disapproving, with her arms folded and a gleam of ice in her eyes.

Crowley sauntered up to the mark. He grinned cheerfully at the crowd. "Ready to meet your match Halt?"

"As if," Halt snorted. "You shoot like a grandma hobbling with her cane."

"Your insults are as creative as ever," Crowley observed. He drew back, took aim and fired.

And the arrow shot right past the target and slammed into the branch of the adjacent silver birch.

There was an awkward silence. Halt and Prtichard stared, mouth agape. The crowd started drunkenly cheering Halt's name, slapping him on the back and praising him for his wond-deer-ful peer-for-mance in carefully pronounced words. He shook them off, trying to catch Crowley's eyes. The sandy haired ranger ducked his head and stomped off to meet Pritchard, while Halt was swept up in the crowd.

"Crowley!" Pauline said, dodging the crowd and catching his arm. Halt tried to turn and intercept her, but the party wouldn't let him and he couldn't catch their exchange. He tried to read their lips, and heads got in the way, tried to hear their voices and the catcalls smothored them.

"What's up?" Crowley asked, cocking an eyebrow.

She set her teeth, a crease lining her forehead. "What's up?" she repeated. "What's up is that I have no clue what's going on with you and Halt, this archery thing came out of nowhere, and before that you- what did that mean?"

He grinned at her, a hollow desolate kind of grin though he wasn't sure she noticed that. "I was just showing you how Halt felt about you, is all." Her lips formed a perfect 'o'- priceless if he'd been in the mood for jokes.

"Be patient with him," Crowley continued. "It'll probably take him a while to have the guts to ask you for dinner." He flashed her a wink. "So you might have to ask him first."

Her face coloured. "You're drunk," she declared. "There is nothing of that sort between Halt and I."

"But you want there to be."

She shook her head. "Go to the infirmary, Crowley," she said in a softer tone. "I'm sorry about your nose."

It wasn't his nose that ached when she turned her back to him and went to find Halt. It wasn't his nose that stung as he watched her and Halt engage in cheerful banter, with Halt throwing glances in his direction and Pauline looking just a fraction distant.

The arm around his shoulders startled him. Crowley flinched and glanced up at Prtichard's sympathetic smile.

"Bad luck lad," the older ranger said. "Women are nothing but trouble anyway."

Crowley shrugged. "I was never going to win. I knew that." He allowed himself a small, creeping smile as he watched the people head back to the food and drink and music. It didn't escape his notice that Halt was trying to reach him, talk to him, perhaps even confront him, but Crowley avoided him for the rest of the evening and most of the next day too, until he declared he was leaving Redmont for his own fief.

Abandoned in the clearing lay the arrow he'd shot, the one that had missed, an impossibly bad shot for any archer, but a remarkably good one had he been aiming fot the flimsy branch of the silver birch.

**Sorry 'bout the lazy writing and all the pov changes -_-**

**So...that's the end...well I'm glad this story's over and done with. Sorry if there's any major mistakes, my eyes are starting to droop and I've picked up on a few badly misplaced words that I've changed but sorry if I've missed any. **


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